


it's in the cards

by zombiesolace



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Chatting & Messaging, Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Polyamory, board game night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-05-28 18:57:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15055610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombiesolace/pseuds/zombiesolace
Summary: Derek couldn’t say board games being banned from the Haus had ever been a real disappointment. There’d been some throwaway comments about whether the rule would stay once Holster followed Jack to graduation but nothing substantial.Of course, no one had considered the fact that Holster moving out would coincide with Ford all but moving in.(or: Nursey gets a Clueanda boyfriend)





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am open to critique - grammar or otherwise, grammar in particular lbr

Derek couldn’t say board games being banned from the Haus had ever been a real disappointment. Sure, he’d grown up playing _Guess Who?_ and _Mouse Trap_ like any other 90’s kid, but as he’d aged and the times had changed he’d witnessed the turn of the century usher in electronics like there _would_ be a tomorrow. A future run on electric innovation. Board games became an antiquated thing of his childhood, a nostalgia kick when a dusty game was dug out of the closet or a passing novelty at parties that tended to only be a novelty if everyone was drunk.

There’d been some throwaway comments about whether the rule would stay once Holster graduated. Jack was guaranteed to come back around with Bitty being the bloody, beating heart of the Haus. Holster had said he’d _die_ before he experienced another party as transcendental as a Haus kegster so no one could say for sure if it was safe.

Of course, no one had considered the fact that Holster moving out would coincide with Ford all but moving _in_.

 

* * *

 

“Listen Nursey,” Farmer shouts from her battle stance on the green sofa, “You invited me to shoot some shit _so why won’t you shoot some goddamn shit??_ ”

“Farmer,” Derek says in a consoling voice, “Farmer. Farms. Industrial agriculture. Stop fucking distracting me.” She raises the controller over her head, her arms twisting erratically like the height and angle will help and jostles the sofa _again_. Derek hits the pause button and shoves himself to his feet. He ignores her squawk of indignation and sets about wrestling the controller from her. She has a height advantage for once but he knows intimately well the lumpy misshapen sofa is a terrible surface to make your stand on. The dusty ass Haus is his usual drinking ground and it’d never be his first choice if not for the people who lived here.

“That’s it,” he says in the same quicksmart tone as the [ ‘meet or greet’ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mZgpAZHFgDw) vine. “You made your choice.”

Farmer gives up the controller easily, smiling crookedly at him. “I don’t know what you expected from us. This game is stressful as fuck.”

Derek gestures expansively to the paused game, adopting a haughty expression. “Do you see this work of art? This fantastic piece of shit game? This is my kind of game. Lovers in a Dangerous Spacetime? _Lovers_ , Farmer. There will never be a word that encapsulates me better. It's about teamwork. It's about cooperation. It’s about adventure and here you are winging it meaninglessly. This is an _artform_. This requires strategy. We’re here to save those cute ass bunnies and they quite clearly aren’t your priority. Where’s the love, Farmer? _Where’s the love_?”

There is a sudden slamming of the front door and clatter of footsteps. Chowder throws himself into the doorway, arms outstretched. “Your love has arrived!” he announces, breathless and ecstatic and Derek instantly feels the same. Chowder’s arms drop and his body sags against the doorframe. “Wow, I was worried I was gonna miss that cue then.”

“No, no,” Farmer says, slow clapping as she jumps from the sofa. “That was well timed. Did you two plan that?” Chowder meets her halfway and throws Derek a grin as he scoops her into his arms. It makes his chest ache even as his heart kind of flutters at how sweet they are together.

“Did we plan that?” Chowder scoffs. “We may not be d-men but we still have magic of our own.”

“Oh really?” Farmer says slyly as she squeezes him around the middle. He brushes her hair back from her face in return and rests his forearms on her shoulders, wrists crossed behind her head.

“Oh yeah,” Chowder says in the same tone. Their eyes hold for a long moment and Derek is desperate to look away from this affinity. He’s about to— _he is_ —but then Chowder’s eyes stray to him. “We know each other, we’re best friends. That kind of intimacy makes for fantastic chemistry.”

His big dark eyes hold Derek still. They make him feel expectant, his heart racing with anticipation. Chowder gives a slow, sweet smile and he really needs to tell the guy that he’s a flirt. It's about time Derek addressed it; it’s been par for the course since their first year. He wants to know if it's unintentional, if Chowder simply enjoys flirting or—or _what?_ Its _deliberate?_

Derek looks away and physically restraints himself from clearing his throat. “That’s quite a line there, C. Oh, oh, watch out, I’m swooning.” He makes a show of falling back onto the sofa, an arm thrown elegantly across his forehead. Something relaxes in his chest when they both laugh.

They crowd up onto the sofa next to him, Derek ending up with his back against the armrest and his toes under Chowder’s ass. Farmer is far less polite and sticks her legs out over him until they’re in Derek’s lap.

Chowder pinches Farmer’s toes and block’s like an NHL pro when she kicks out. “I could hear you shouting at Nursey out on the street y'know.”

Farmer flicks her hand in the direction of the TV. “Its that game he’s obsessed with. I was just gonna wait for you to get out of class here and then this guy ambushed me.”

“Don’t listen to her, C,” Derek says draping his arm around Chowder. “I was trying to strengthen our friendship with some Xbox co-op, for _your_ sake.” It isn’t until he feels the soft, slightly sweaty skin at the back of Chowder’s neck under his searching fingertips that he realises they’re probably cruising down a two-way flirt street. He gives in and clears his throat. “What’s the occasion anyway? Don’t you guys have a standing date on Monday’s?”

“Cait said to meet her here.” He doesn’t seem to know why—which means Farmer’s up to something. She’s a real meddler. As trustworthy as a cat in a china cabinet, paw raised and eye contact threatening.

“I figured I’d _pass the baton_ ,” she says cryptically. “I thought I’d _do my bit_. Just as you plan to do right, Chris? So you can _take up the reins_ right?”

“Oh,” Chowder says slowly, “Oh! Right! I do, I am—going to do that. Now? Wait, now? What specifically?”

“Do you want me to leave?” Derek asks in amusement even as his stomach turns with something like warning. “Sounds like that needs translating. I suggest the KISS rule. Keep it simple and straightforward and everyone understands.”

Farmer points excitedly to Derek. “Exactly. He’s right and we should bring everyone up to speed. And like Nursey says: _K. I. S. S._ ”

“Oh I don’t want to intrude—” Derek gets out haltingly, his stomach leaping, as Chowder turns towards him with a funny smile and says, “Nursey, you have to know—”

The Haus door slams open this time and the following footsteps march inside. There’s a weird, billowing atmosphere in the living room as they wait to see who’s home. Derek feels like his fight or flight instinct is kicking in. If Chowder weren’t sitting on his feet he thinks he’d have spread his wings by now.

Its Ford who appears first. She smiles brightly at Farmer before throwing Chowder and Derek an excited look. That relaxes Derek somewhat, that face means they’re in for something good. The way it feels to watch a Lush bath bomb colour the water – bright like champagne and leisurely like a smoothie.

Bitty, Dex, Tango and Whiskey follow her at the rear. They hesitate behind Ford for a moment before scattering into the kitchen.

“Hey Caitlin,” Ford says, “You performance last week was brilliant.”

“You came to the game?” Farmer asks, clearly flattered.

“Yeah,” Ford says, “My date was April’s sister?”

“Oh yeah? Her twin—”

“Yep,” Ford says, “That’s the one. Now we’re about to hold a team meeting.”

“Righto,” Farmer says amused. Derek has heard Farmer lament many a time that she doesn’t have enough time to cultivate a demeanor like Ford’s before she becomes team captain next year. Her team haven’t any complaints.

Farmer presses her mouth to Chowder’s cheek and whispers something. He mutters back a goodbye with a guileless smile. It has Farmer hopping from the couch to mash his giggling face into the seat cushions. Derek is curious about this unscheduled team meeting but he kinda wishes it were just the three of them for a while longer. His stomach is churning with disorientation – something like potential is stirring, something like _hope_.

“See you, Nursey,” Farmer says holding out her fist.

Derek blinks free of his daydream and bumps their knuckles gently. “Deadass I’ll never play co-op with you again.”

Farmer waves him off and says to Ford as she walks past, “You’ll play co-op with me won’t you?”

Ford looks studiously between them. “You’re talking about games right? Video games? Because yes, but only if you never use gaming language like you expect me to understand again.”

“Lol,” Farmer calls back from the hallway, voice muffled by the wall. “I take it your date didn’t go well.”

“No,” Ford says as the front door closes, “it didn’t.” She hadn’t said anything positive or negative about the date last week. Derek assumes, had assumed, it was just the pair missing the mark. They need to arrange a coffee date and he needs to come up with some fake gaming terms to sprinkle in their conversation.

“So you’ve come to hang out with us instead?” Chowder enthuses.

Ford shoots finger guns in his direction. “Come join me in the kitchen.”

 

* * *

 

Ford waits until they’re all settled at the kitchen table with generous servings of blueberry pie before she begins speaking. She doesn’t wait to finish her mouthful so Derek capitalises on that. “For all intents and purposes—” she begins as he sticks his tongue out at her with his half chewed food on it. She does the same, mashed blueberry coating her tongue and teeth delightfully.

“ _For all intents and purposes_ you’re a tight knit group.” If her eyes linger more on Derek than they do on Dex, he knows it's because her knee jerk reaction is to side with him _always_. As much as love is potentially a part of his and Dex’s complicated love-hate relationship, he enjoys the petty win. Ford has said any desire to argue with Dex is equally petty for her too. They’re on the same page, they know what they’re about.

“And its important to maintain the social health of a group so with that in mind I’ve come up with some activities for us.” Ford looks so exceedingly pleased with this occasion that her nose crinkles with the growth of her sprawling smile.

Derek pauses chewing. He doesn’t know if this is targeted at him and Dex or not but it doesn’t feel like its _not_. Dex eyes him from across the table as he worries his lip, the question unasked but as loud as a shout. Derek shrugs in response. Things are weird between them, Ford knows that, he trusts her no matter what this turns out to be.

Bitty knocks his fork gently on the table to catch everyone’s pie distracted attention. “Ford and I have discussed the activities and I agree that they’ll have a positive effect on our team. I know we spend a lot of time together – hell I’m not sure I’m ever without one of y'all around – but beyond practice and matches we aren’t ever all entirely together.”

“Where’s the rest of the team then?” Tango asks. “What activities and when are we doing them?”

Ford pats his hand. “This is a test run. Bitty and I decided on Frogs and Tadpoles because you already work well together in your subsets. So it's guaranteed to work.” Maybe not so targeted then. Or extremely specifically targeted considering their longrunning d-man strife and how divorced from the team Whiskey had been last year.

“You’re skewing the odds,” Whiskey says spearing a piece of pie. He chews on it delicately. “Sounds like you think it’ll fail otherwise.” Derek bites back a laugh.

“It's not that deep,” Ford says with her eyes narrowed.

“Like I suspect the reason behind this exercise.”

Tango smacks his round the head, fluffing up his hair. “Whiskey, stop antagonising. She hasn’t answered my questions yet.” He turns to Ford, holding himself between them so they can’t see one another. “Ford—”

“I have a few activities I’ve learnt from my various theatre groups. Not to say all theatre groups place such emphasis on team building but I _love_ them and I’m the manager now so what I say goes.” Her smile is cheeky and whip quick and goddamn, Derek loves this girl. “This first one however is not something I’ve done as a part of theatre or at all.”

Ford stands and makes her way over to the sink. She stops, still facing away. Her hands come up behind her to clutch one another, clasped like a bouncer. The light from the window shades her into a captivating silhouette, mysterious and glowing faintly at the edges. Chowder nudges his elbow into Derek’s side excitedly. When Ford is on her dramatics, you know something damn _good_ it about to go the fuck down. Goddamn it he _loves this girl_.

“This Friday night...” Ford says, her voice low and rife with building hype. She picks up a wine glass and holds it to the light. A rainbow of sun streaks through the glass and cuts a line across the scene. “...the six of you will be joining me in a game of Clue.”

She turns to face them slowly. Her face beginning to stretch into a grin. “A real life game of Clue. One where the six of you will play a colourful investigator each, and potentially: the murderer.”

Derek shoots to his feet. “Are you deadass, Ford?”

“Derek,” Ford says, with a disappointed look, “would I ever joke about a murder mystery?”

“Oh my fucking god,” Derek whispers. “My life has peaked.”

Chowder pulls Derek back into his chair with a laugh and slings an arm around his neck. “Wait until you win the game.”

“ _Oh my fucking god_ ,” Derek hisses. He clutches at Chowder’s shirt. He can hear everyone chattering excitedly around them and it catches him by surprise that Chowder isn’t one of them. “Dude, tell me you’re excited.”

Chowder jerks in surprise. “Oh I absolutely am! Its just its you I want to discuss this with and you were having a moment. I figured I best let you fantasise first, you’re easily distracted y’know.”

His smile is so fucking genuine and soft with the chirp that for a moment Derek lets himself pretend they’re dressed in uglyass tweed that they’d both still look so fucking fine in. They’d be lost in an a ridiculously large manor somewhere in a tiny English town. Derek would be covered in cobwebs from tripping through a secret passage he had painstakingly ferreted out. Chowder would chirp him some more as he helped Derek up and brushed him down. He lets himself pretend because Derek would never once hesitate to kiss Chowder in that universe. He’d have already asked him if that were something Chowder wanted.

 

* * *

 

Derek spends the rest of the week lowkey avoiding their mutual haunts. He’s not avoiding Chowder per se. They walk to and from practice together. When Chowder invites him to lunch with Dex and Bitty off campus he goes. In fact he eats every meal that week with Chowder right next to him—the status quo is stuck fast. Him avoiding the Haus otherwise is all that changes. He’s not sure that Chowder will notice his absence considering they don’t spend 24/7 together but isn’t surprised when he does.

They’re on their way to practise, the morning bright and dewy, when he asks.

“Hey,” and his tone somewhere between gentle and annoyed, “what’s Dex done this time?”

“Dex?” Derek says baffled. “In what context?”

Chowder is frowning when he answers. “You haven’t been home this week.”

Derek trips then, blindsided by the casual use of them having a mutual _home_. It's too similar to some of his foolish far-future dreams. Not just foolish because there’s nothing romantic between him and Chowder, but foolish even considering they have no idea where they’ll be after graduation. He has no idea how Chowder and Farmer do it. He’s heard Shitty lament the distance between him and Lardo enough to be wary of the circumstance even if he is a full on, heart eyes, ‘trials and tribulations only strengthen the love’ bleeding romantic.

Chowder catches him almost casually. He’s grinning now which makes Derek feel better. “Walk much, Nurse?” His hands squeeze Derek’s biceps and his mind runs through half a dozen plays on how he can just as casually reach over and do the same to Chowder. None of them belong in this reality, none so seriously.

“Dex and I are fine,” Derek says because he’s not really in the mood to chirp back. Not when chirping feels so much like flirting with the right person. Chowder being that right person.

He isn’t been so intense without Farmer around at least. He assumes Farmer puts Chowder in a flirty mood and he feels comfortable enough to displace some of the affection onto Derek. It's not like Derek isn’t just as friendly with the people he likes. Only it’d be more touching in this instance if it didn’t confuse him so much.

“Quite the glowing review,” Chowder says wryly.

“Chill, like what do you expect? I don’t even know if I want more than that sometimes.” Derek doesn’t know what to do with Dex. Everything has gone downhill since the coin toss. Dex had apologised eventually. It hadn’t been anything spectacular, surprising in some ways for its nuance, but mostly just as disappointing as any apology after such a shit show.

It's been a couple months. They haven't made it back to where they were before, not yet. They may act the same as they used to but the depths to their friendship have shallowed. It's odd now to think they’ve been best friends at points. They’re so shit at communicating and Dex has some awful hangups. Since the coin toss Derek’s enthusiasm for their friendship has dampened some. They’re still fire on the ice but otherwise? They have work to do and no idea where to start.

“That’s fair,” Chowder says.

“Thanks,” Derek says quietly, his eyes on his feet.

Chowder darts behind Derek, his arms wrapping tight around his waist. Derek barely has time to react before Chowder is lifting him off his feet and into the air shouting: “Got your back!”

Derek can’t possibly avoid such a joyous boy for the rest of the week so he won’t force himself to. Chowder spins him around and around and doesn’t stop until they’re both dizzy enough to stumble. He lets Chowder place bubbles of happiness in his chest and does his best not to burst them.

“So what is it?” Chowder says a while later. They’d walked in content silence for so long it takes Derek a moment to figure out what he’s asking. Chowder speaks again before he can come up with a poor excuse for making the Haus a no-go zone fortunately. “If you want to talk about it that is?”

Derek loves the way his scant eyebrows ruffle when he frowns. The feeling softens his words where his nerves would usually sharpen them. “I don’t thanks.”

“No worries,” Chowder murmurs and bumps his shoulder gently against Derek’s.

That week he successfully avoids hanging out with both Chowder and Farmer at once. He doesn’t know what that was the other day, doesn’t know what the hell they were on about but whenever he reads it back it feels full of suggestion and Derek daren’t let himself hope.

 

* * *

 

 

 

  **gET A CLUE**

Active now

_1955 Ford Thunderbird_ : so i know many of you are die hards for the classic form as a general principle, myself included, buuut mustard dick turns out to be a colonialist and a hunter (unsurprisingly) so everyone gets create their own Clue characters! pick a colour

 _a sexy sexy nurse nurse_ : wE CAN MAKE A RAINBOW REPRESENTTTT

 _i’d fuck the fish man_ : who do i have to kill to REPRESENTTTT the Sharks?

 _a sexy sexy nurse nurse_ : i accuse Christopher Franklin Chow, in the Haus, with his love of the Sharks

 _1955 Ford Thunderbird_ : game over, Nursey wins

 _1955 Ford Thunderbird_ : what do we want people: to be a prideful rainbow or for Chowder to wear turquoise?

 _i’d fuck the fish man_ : i don’t want to put anyone out! Just consider me green and blue

 _i don’t dance_ : Ford wait there are so many other opinions than mustard dick, we could just cut him out of the game

 _I’m a sipping whiskey???_ : Count the colours fish man

 _he’ll dex you_ : Why is this an issue? turquoise is blue

 _a sexy sexy nurse nurse_ : Make him suffer

 _1955 Ford Thunderbird_ : no this is what i want, all the Clue characters are outdated

 _i don’t dance:_ turquoise is defined as greenish-blue

 _I’m a sipping whiskey???_ : Ummmmmmmm I’ll fight you???

 _1955 Ford Thunderbird_ : dark rainbow show me your pink

 _i’d fuck the fish man_ : watch me slowly swap all your stuff with Sharks gear

 _i don’t dance:_ can we all start writing who we’re talking to please? this is confusing and out of order

 _a sexy sexy nurse nurse_ : make him (Chowder) suffer

 _i’d fuck the fish man_ : watch me (Chowder) slowly swap all your (Nursey) stuff with Sharks gear

 _fatty daddy i want you_ changed his name to _fatty daddy (Bitty) i want you (Jack)_

 _fatty daddy (Bitty) i want you (Jack)_ : Everyone (everyone) stfu, never fear, we (everyone) can have it all [ https://www.gizmodo.com.au/2015/06/how-the-rainbow-pride-flag-lost-its-pink-and-turquoise-stripes/ ](https://www.gizmodo.com.au/2015/06/how-the-rainbow-pride-flag-lost-its-pink-and-turquoise-stripes/)

_1955 Ford Thunderbird_ : cool so fish man (Chowder) has dibs on turquoise, blue, and green, i (Ford) /will/ fight you (each and everyone of you) all for pink, continue

 _a sexy sexy nurse nurse_ : not to mention some certain fine beings in the chat wear the black and brown stripes all day every day

 _1955 Ford Thunderbird_ : REPRESENTTTT

 _I’m a sipping whiskey???_ : REPRESENTTTT

 _i don’t dance_ : REPRESENTTTT

 _i’d fuck the fish man_ : REPRESENTTTT

 _fatty daddy (Bitty) i want you (Jack)_ : i’ll take red, i rock the colour and can rep Samwell

 _a sexy sexy nurse nurse_ : take one look at my fat ass and ship me off to Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory, I’m violeetttttt

 _he’ll dex you_ : you (Nursey) just picked that colour so you (Nursey) could make that pun

 _a sexy sexy nurse nurse_ : it's the little things in life Dexy

 _a sexy sexy nurse nurse_ : OMG are you (Dexy) jealous?? Did you (Dexy) want this colour???

 _he’ll dex you_ : …orange and purple are complementary colours

 _a sexy sexy nurse nurse_ : well i’ll (Nursey) be, he (Dexy) does have a sense of humour

 _I’m a sipping whiskey???_ : No they’re fucking not???? Stop talking out your ass about colours Dex (Dex)

 _i don’t dance_ : please Whiskey just lock yourself in as an Arts major i’m tired of this

 _I’m a sipping whiskey???_ : I’m taking orange to spite you (Dex) now Dex (Dex). Watch me (Whiskey) dress orange up like you’ve never seen before

 _I’m a sipping whiskey???_ : And you’ll (Tango) be pleased to know I (Whiskey) have

 _1955 Ford Thunderbird_ : oh that’s right, you’ll (everyone) have to come up with a character/persona and dress in the appropriate colours!

 _i don’t dance_ : WHISKEY I HAVE SO MANY QUESTIONS BUT I’M TOO PLEASED TO CARE  
  
_fatty daddy (Bitty) i want you (Jack)_ : Ford WTF this is happening in three days???

 _1955 Ford Thunderbird_ : better pick easy colours then

 _i don’t dance_ : DIBS INDIGO

 _he’ll dex you_ : INDIGOO

 _he’ll dex you_ : FFUCK

 _I’m a sipping whiskey???_ : for the record Dex (Dex) orange and yellow most certainly aren’t complimentary colours

 _he’ll dex you_ : FFUCkkK

 

* * *

 

 

 

**THE ONLY FISH MAN I’LL EVER LOVE**

Active now

_write me_ : ………………………………………………………………

 _write me_ : ……………………………………………………dex got yellow

 _write me_ : …………………………………………………………dex is the mustard dick

 _the only fish man i’ll ever love_ : LMAO thank you for putting it in our chat

 _write me_ : let the record show i (Nursey) did it for you (Chowder) and my girl (Shuri)

 

* * *

 

Derek brings up the Clue game in his family call that week. He wants some advice on dressing the part and he knows he’s in safe hands. His mama had sown him a butterfly costume of vibrant colours and strategically placed sequins when he was ten and shy as fuck. He’s never been more sold on anything than when the girl he’d been crushing on had complimented his flashy, fluttery dancing.

“I mean I haven’t fleshed out my character yet. I have a _load_ of ideas and believe me I’m getting there but I’m eager AF to get started on the costume,” he says. His lap and bed are scattered with notes and every violet item of colouring he owns. It's not as many as he’d like. He’s starting to think violet might be his colour. “Also this thing is in two days.”

“Sounds like you’re walking the line between getting ahead of yourself and being behind schedule on this,” his Dad says. Sharif has his cheek pillowed in his hand and when he straightens up, even on the shitty video camera Derek can see the creases his glasses and palm have left.

“Nonsense,” his Mama says cheerily. “That’s just how sewing goes. There’s always too much to do and never enough time.” Lani’s barely on the screen beside his Dad. It's not easy to sit all three of his parents at the same computer but they’ve left her plenty of room. His Mama just hates having their own camera view obscure the screen and cut out whoever she’s talking to so she minimises it. Her being offscreen now is a silent protest.

Derek spends every video chat between the two of them talking to empty air and Lani loves to take advantage of that. There’s many many screenshots of Derek caught unawares that he’d rather not see the light of day.

“I’m not sewing _anything_ , no how no way,” Derek says vehemently. He’s too much of a perfectionist to even get past sketching the preliminary ideas before his times runs out.

Lani waves him off, “Sewing, designing, its all the same. You want yourself an outfit, you’re in for bumpy, exhausting, emotionally draining ride.”

“Mama, please, I want to continue being excited for this.”

“Well I hope you can be excited alone for now because until you figure out your character and the vibe they want to give off during this mystery I refuse to help you,” she says. “The clothes a person wears are a statement whether they want to it to be or not and I won’t dress anyone I don’t know.”

His Mom lets out a slow belly-aching laugh at this, her rounded cheeks dimpling up. Paula always looks real damn delighted at his dilemmas. “Better get writing, son.”

“Story of my life,” he mutters. He’s got a handful of assignments and personal short stories crowded on his laptop that he’s done little more than _plan_ for in far too long. He’s never written any other way. He kinda loves it which is half the fucking problem.

“Dude, I’ll help you wing it,” his sister puts in. “I can make anyone look good.” It's the first time Eliana’s looked at the laptop screen all night. She’d had her nose buried so far in the novel that Derek had been sure she’d transport herself into that world through sheer force of will. It hadn’t stopped her speaking whenever he needed her too. Derek misses them sitting quietly, doing their own thing, so fiercely some days that he can’t breathe past the thought.

“Yes, look good,” Lani says, “but not appropriate or conveying a particular emotion or personality. There is more to dressing than keeping up with the trends.”

“Excuse me,” Eliana snaps her book closed and makes a show of looking affonted. “I dress everyone, myself included, with _voracious_ personality.”

“Sure sure,” Lani says with a wave of her hand, “but it is never truly personalised, only manufactured to be in style.”

Eliana gasps, “The gall.” Her image vanishes as she hangs up.

Derek settles back into his pillows. He can see his father doing the same in his computer chair and they share a smile. The Nurse-Mehta-Tupola family can be counted on to put on a good show; one night a week, some blessedly countless nights a year.

“I’m glad you’re having fun down there,” Sharif says. “You make the most of your college years.”

“Don’t doubt,” Derek says, “I am certainly going hard on this character of mine. I’m talking in character the moment the game starts and until the moment the game ends. Maybe I’ll have a character voice? And differing speech patterns, and definitely specific body language. Who the fuck even is Derek Nurse?”

Paula leans in Shariff in excitement. “I love it, this boy of ours is inspiring. Let’s hold a Clue party of our own.”

Eliana, now back and grinning in delight, snaps forward towards the camera, “With us right? We’re invited?”

“Only if you let me dress you,” Lani says.

“Deal,” Eliana says holding her hand up for a high five. Lani happily mimes along with her. “Craft me a personality, mother.”

“Child, I will polish you up a presence like none other,” Lani says. She turns to Derek with a kind smile, “And you! I’m sure you’ll do the same.”

“I’ll have the character drafted by tomorrow lunchtime and then I’ll head out to the shops on Friday.” That’s a schedule he can keep. Fuck he’s so excited he might even have his person designed by tonight.

Sharif pulls a truly uncomfortable face. “That’s…cutting it so close.”

Paula loosely rubs over his buzzed down hair. “He’s a Uni student, what do you expect? Plus Lani and I still haven’t paid for our tickets to the Jewish Film Festival yet. He’s got way more time.”

“What?” Sharif whispers. “That’s this month! It's in a matter of weeks! The tickets sell months before that!”

“We have plenty of time,” Lani says easily. “We just haven’t had a chance of recent.”

“What?” Sharif says urgently, “No we don’t and that’s impossible. We’ve had that scheduled in since permanently since _we go every year_.”

Paula and Lani exchange an expression that is equally amused and fond. Derek struggles to hold back a laugh and can see Eliana doing the same. He knows they bought the tickets months ago when his Moms called up to invite him along as per usual. He screenshots the looks on all their faces. He can all but see steam leaking from his Dad’s ears as he tries to figure out a solution. He fucking loves them.

His Moms tell his Dad eventually – after a few more rounds of teasing – and the baton gets passed until everyone has been thoroughly roasted for their faults. Its like every phone call home, every week the same, tried and true. He hopes they know how much he appreciates it, how much he appreciates _them._ Derek becomes so content and warm that it takes him a while to realise they’re lulling him to sleep.

He sits up from the slump he’s fallen into and calls for their attention. “I’ll talk to you on Friday, Mama, we have a costume to discuss—yes, Eliana, I will send you pictures of everyone chill.”

“I’d like some too,” Sharif says. “Particularly of you, sweetheart.”

“I’ll pose like you’ve never seen before,” Derek promises.

Paula laughs. “We have your instagram, we’ve seen it all.”

“ _Deadass that gall_ ,” Derek says and hangs up. He doesn’t bother calling back, just texts a round of I love you’s and his smile grows and grows with each response. He can feel his cheeks aching from all the laughter tonight and if he writes a poem about love lingering on his face instead of drafting his Clue character then that’s the fickle nature of writing for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this story is complete dw so there will be a regular update schedule, i hope you have as much fun reading this as i did writing it!!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am open to critique - grammar or otherwise, grammar in particular lbr

The morning of Game Day finds Derek in a thrift store a few blocks down from Samwell. He has the majority of his costume bought and ironed but his Mama swears by the trash is treasure idiom and Derek swears by his Mama’s word.

He’s shoulder deep in an overflowing clothes rack of shirts – the offending item having slipped from the rail to vanish in the between – when the top of Ford’s head pops up from behind a rack of pants. They stare wide eyed at each other for a moment before Ford whisper-shouts: “Don’t fucking look!”

Derek’s urgent desire to hide his character design evaporates in an instant. He grins lazily at her and makes a big show of squinting at the pants rack that covers all but the warning look in her eyes. “I think you’re in the wrong section, Ford. Those pants’ll come up to your chin. And while I truly, honestly, undoubtedly believe you’re a trendsetter, maybe the kids section is more your speed?”

Ford gives an exaggerated sniff and the flick of her wrist. “I’ve already plundered the kids section for everything it has to offer. I’ve also left an awful lot of violet back there for you.” She pauses, her eyes going wide. “Oh, I’m not sure it would fit your 50ft ass though? Maybe you could graft some pieces together like Frankenstein’s monster would if he'd taken a hand at sewing. I can see it, you both have that whole dramatic, moping aesthetic going on.”

She comes around the rack and Derek hastily shoves the shirt he had a tentative grip on deeper into the clothes rack. “How _is_ that search for violet clothes in your size going?” Her voice is _deeply concerned_.

Derek’s face curves into a despairing look and Ford immediately drops the act to consolingly pat his arm. She’s laughing as she says it but her tone is genuine, “The triumph your message held when you said you were taking violet. All I could think about these extravagant body proportions of yours.”

“ _Nice_ ,” Derek says. He leans an elbow against the rack to prop his chin up and the clothes all swing violently under his weight. It's only Ford’s sharp, dancer's reflexes that stop him from being swallowed whole by last seasons fashion.

Ford snorts, “You go in there and you’re never coming out.”

Derek readjusts the clothes halfheartedly. He’s resigned to the fact the shirt he wanted is now sandwiched, and likely crushed, inside the overflowing rack. “That scared the shit out of me, not gonna lie, but I have to say there is an immense allure around finding out what kind of world is hidden inside of clothes racks.”

Ford grins fondly at the mass of clothes, “I used to play in them as a kid. My mum tells me she dreaded bringing me clothes shopping as a child because I’ve disappear into one of them at a moments notice.”

Derek tilts his head to the side and makes a square with his fingers. “I’m imagining you gap toothed and in overalls. Those cute ones embroidered with flowers.”

“Close,” Ford says, “I _was_ gap toothed. I hear kids often lose their teeth or something like that? I don’t know, I’m no dentist.”

Any anxiousness Derek had felt about tonight's surprise being ruined dissipates the longer he spends with Ford. She good like that. They both have their fair share of unhealthy coping mechanisms but none that overlap. Where Derek is lax, Ford is meticulous. When Ford is frenetic, Derek is at pragmatic.

“I was actually penchent to a snazzy polo shirt or two,” Ford says with a nod over Derek’s shoulder. The one rack he’d specifically been avoiding is chockablock with pinstripe polo shirts in either plain shades of navy or colours Dex would swear are complimentary.

“Ford,” Derek says, taking her hand, “Ford, I’ll trade you baby photos. My goth phase for your golf phase.”

Ford twists her hand in his grip until its held ready to be shaken. She gives a firm pump of his hand and says, “ _Deal_.”

“In fact,” Derek says as he begins edging over to the polo rack, “you should give us taste test first and wear one tonight. Polos are v businessy, but also casual chic y’know? Show us who’s in charge with a sweet forest green polo.” Derek pulls the oversized shirt from the rack and has to do a double take as he holds it up. “Oh shit, this colour would actually look stunning on you.”

Ford rips it from his grip easily before neatly hanging it back up. “Which one is it then? You trying to butter me up or start some healthy competition.”

“Let's be real, Ford,” Derek says, “with you? It's always both.”

“Same,” Ford says delighted, “SWV are holding another trivia comp this month, want to tag team with me?”

“And kick Farmer’s ass in the process? _Ford_ ,” Derek says holding both hands up for a high five, “You’re _too_ good to me.”

Ford gives a little jump as she smacks his palms and Derek feels his general enthusiasm for life double in her presence.

“Chowder will be there too,” she says casually. Take it or leave it, her expression says. He appreciates the ear she unerringly lends him but Derek’s in too good a mood to be lovesick right now.

“You and me need to spend some quality time together,” he says. “It's been awhile since we hang out properly. You never did say how your date went last week.”

“It was fine. We had nothing in common and there wasn’t enough of a spark to have us try a second time. My plate’s been so full lately. Let’s hang out now. Wanna keep shopping together but also hide what we have? It’ll up the stakes. I have some reusable bags we can pack stuff in and I like the theatrics of a good surprise,” she says, bouncing on her toes in anticipation.

“Sure thing,” Derek says, pleased, as she passes a bag over and they head deeper into the store. “And I’m going to go the complete opposite direction of your thing for surprises, but do you need any help setting up tonight?”

Ford makes a considering noise. It's not immediately clear whether its for him or the pink dress with iron on decals so he waits her out.

“You reckon you can get some of the boys to tidy the Haus?” she says. “Like I like the idea of the place being a little messy because this is a customised Clue game and it gives the nine rooms character but still we need walking space.”

“Ah yeah that’s chill,” Derek says, wrinkling his nose up at a shirt that’s too blue to be violet. He snaps a shot of it for Tango because it has a funky question mark on the front. “Which rooms in particular? We got more than nine.”

“Spoilers,” Ford says indifferently.

Derek shoots her a distrustful look, “Oh I see, this is all just a ploy of Bitty’s to get us to clean the Haus more often. He’s no help either y’know, he just slaps on throw covers and curtains to pretty up our shame.”

“The Haus is disgusting,” Ford declares, “but better than most frat houses and on par with my dorm room so I’d say that this is just for tonight. Who knows how the game will go? If it's anything like D&D we’ll end up trashing the place as part of our campaign.”

Derek makes a deeply satisfied noise at this, “It’s the Haus that’s getting murdered tonight.”

“We can TP the place and cover the toilet paper in corn syrup and red dye,” Ford says on a roll, clothes search forgotten.

“We’ll paint our hands with it too and stagger around horrified at what we’ve become,” Derek says, smiling at the mental image of Chowder throwing TP with his goalie face on and Dex meticulously calculating the trajectory of each toss.

“Let's just forget the game and do that instead,” Ford says with a laugh. “We can bulk buy toilet paper on Amazon by this weekend.”

“Can you imagine the fear we’d put into the LAX bros?” Derek says slightly awed at the idea. “Laying an attack against our own Haus to no end? They’d steer clear of us for _weeks_ afterwards.”

“Oh shit,” Ford says, “Plan cancelled. Whiskey would be right over there covered in blood to drag them in onto the prank. He’s probably quote them Shakespeare.”

“How romantic,” Derek says suspiciously. “I can’t quite figure out if he likes them or not.”

Ford laughs. “He likes them just fine but he’s for sure come around to the idea of messing with them. He says they always look so dumbfounded and then immediately revert to anger like toddlers.”

“The true SMH team bonding exercise,” Derek says with a growing smile, “hazing the LAX bros.”

“Quote me Shakespeare, Derek,” Ford says dramatically, “You know what passage I want.”

Derek drops everything in his arms startling a laugh out of Ford and claps a hand on his chest.

_“Two households, both alike in dignity,_

_In fair Samwell, where we lay our scene,_

_From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,_

_Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.”_

He lets the final word trail off to the sound of Ford’s light applause. “Bravo,” she says with a posh accent, “Oh bravo.”

The search devolves from there into a series of theatrics that they’re both well known for despite their differing beats. So distracted that they are it isn’t until they’re out the door and halfway down the block merrily in search of a Starbucks that it occurs to them that was a mission aborted.

Ford snorts are she rummages through her bag, checking herself. “You get everything you need?”

“Yep,” Derek says. There’d been some more ideas floating around his head but he’s going to keep this simple. He can already see his costume coming together and he can’t fucking wait to get home for the dress rehearsal.

Ford sighs, nose deep in her shopping. “If I’d had more time I would have liked to have made my own costume. I mean obviously I’ll be making alterations to these but still.”

Derek nudges her with his elbow. “Next time hey?”

“You bet your ass.”

 

* * *

 

Derek texts the group chat a few hours later to call everyone to the Haus. There is a considerable amount of panic in response—

 _he’ll dex you_ : i;m not fffucking ready yet ???

 _i don’t dance_ : whyyyyyyy nooooo

 _fatty daddy (Bitty) i want you (Jack)_ : i /CAN’T/.

Derek tells them all _someone_ has to clean the Haus and in quick succession everyone volunteers someone else as tribute. He ends up cleaning the Haus with Wicks and Ollie (who in a trade Tango got Ford to promise to make another game night that includes their pouting asses); a woman from one of Dex’s computing classes (who Dex lamented had been looking to hold a favour over his head for reasons he wouldn’t explain); Michalina (who both Derek and Bitty know from the Samwell Pride group); a fucking LAX bro of Whiskey’s (???); and regretfully: Farmer.

The cleaning of the Haus itself goes smoothly. There’s very little actual cleaning that needs to be done—need being subjective he tells everyone. It obviously _needs_ to be done but not right now. Mostly they just clear enough space in every room for six large hockey players to comfortably throw one another around. The LAX bro is promptly locked outside the Haus to rake the backyard. Michalina and Dreestee exchange flirty words and numbers. Wicks and Ollie cordon off areas of the Attic that aren't too be touched. And Farmer, unsurprisingly, unfortunately, unceasingly, sticks to Derek’s side.

She’s a _huge_ help, she’s doesn’t complain one wit, and though Derek tries to be his usual calm collected self he knows he comes off as stilted. The longer they rearrange furniture and knick knacks together the more frequently her magnificent eyebrows furrow. Derek doesn’t know how to forestall the questions she’s going to raise.

The thing is they don’t know each other well. Or they do because when Chowder loves someone he’ll talk endlessly about them. So Derek can list off the names of Farmer’s sisters, her best friend from high school and her abuelita. He has an anecdote after anecdote about Farmer but he’s wasn’t around to witness a good half of them. He has no doubt Farmer can do the same for him. They’ve known Chowder for three heartwarming years. Farmer is often at the Haus, Chowder glued to her side and Derek glued to his by virtue of them being _Frogs._ Farmer has been around for as long as them; the OG Frogs all declaring her an honorary Frog at one time or another.

Derek had seen Farmer enter the Haus on Monday and rather than regulating her to Chowder’s room he’d invited her to co-op because—he likes to think they’re friends and she’s Chowder’s best friend too.

Derek trips over the now exposed carpet in Bitty’s room and sees Farmer reaching for him. He catches himself and pulls away before she can connect. He can see her gearing up to speak and blurts the first thing on his mind.

“You know how you have all those friends in high school who know you by virtue of being kept in the same space? And then you leave school and you never speak to them again because it was all situational?” he says. Its an unfinished thought so he spits out the rest in hopes it’ll remedy this awkwardness. “Or how you can know someone well because you’re in the same circles and have overlapping friends? Do you think that might as well be the same thing?”

It isn’t until Farmer’s mouth turns down in a alarmed fashion that he realises what he’s asked. He’s not sure how to backtrack now, he hadn’t realised this’d been bothering him. Simply put he doesn’t know where they stand.

“Hey, Nursey,” Farmer says faultingly, successfully interrupting his steadily raising anxiety. “Did something I said on Monday upset you?”

Derek is shaking his head vigorously, his body trying to stress his emotional turmoil where his mouth won’t. There’s a beat, a trip in conversation like a skipping track where it's his turn to say something and he doesn’t. He just doesn’t. He feels like he’s already given up too much of himself already.

“Only—” she says, “I usually see you around the Haus is all. We cross paths often in a week and Chris—” She lets out a sudden sigh and her mouth twists like she can’t find the right words.

He knows that feeling. It's got a tight, choking hold of him now.

“I don’t want to be cornering you if you don’t want to talk,” she says guestering between them. “I don’t want you to think Chris and I have been talking behind you back. Not to say you don’t come up often, Chris loves you. I just—”

She waves her hand about the air searching for words. Her gaze is worried when she finds them. “I feel like I fucked up.”

Derek feels like she fucked up too. And more than that he feels like he fucked up. He can’t translate the emotions he’d struggling under into coherent thought yet so he hooks a thumb in the direction of the door and leads her down to the kitchen. By some miracle there’s no one downstairs so they put the kettle on and wait for it to boil on the green sofa. There’s a stretch of space between them that should have Chowder in it.

As he gears himself up to speak, Farmer blurts, “Chris should be here. I can’t apologise properly without explaining everything to you and so much of this is Chris’s to say.”

Derek feels a spark of irritation at this: that they clearly _have_ been talking about him behind his back; that she interrupted him; that he can see her recognising it. His suspicions are confirmed though, whatever cryptic shit she’d been saying to Chowder on Monday had been about him.

“Sorry,” she says, “You—you need to speak. I’m listening.”

Derek huffs a laugh. He can’t really fault her for much. “I don’t want to be talking about this yet and I can’t explain to you why what you said, what I thought you were inferring, bothered me.”

Farmer jolts forward, “I was inferring.” And Derek feels something like an electric shock run up his spine. “I—oh, I’m just excited. I shouldn’t be saying or inferring anything.” Farmer jumps to her feet and there’s no Chowder for her to tease right now. No way she could shove Derek’s face into the couch and have that be okay right now.

She still holds her fist out. “I’m sorry. It’s not my place. We’ll talk properly when we can talk about this.”

Derek looks between her face and her fist and gently bumps his knuckles against hers.

She hesitates on her way to the kitchen, the kettle hissing in quiet concern. “Do you want to see me until then?”

“We’re cool, Farmer,” Derek says dredging up a smile for her. They have their wires crossed somewhere but they’ve got a vow to work them out also. It should tide his anxiety over, like theoretically. “I don’t know if that’ll happen anytime soon and it’d be ridic to hold off our friendship.”

Farmer glances over to the Xbox, her gaze lingering. “I enjoyed us playing co-op y’know, it being you and me.”

Derek almost laughs. “You know when you don’t necessarily enjoy something in the moment but as soon as you’re done you’re ready to go again?”

Farmer clicks her fingers and points at him, “I absolutely agree.”

 

* * *

 

After the cleaning crew disperse and Derek strong arms Ollie and Wicks out of the Haus, he heads upstairs to his room in giddy excitement. His costume is quick to put on – the material soft and comfortable – and he jumps into the bathroom to send off some selfies to his family group chat.

His Mom responds first: _You look super!_ And then quickly after via their private chat: _If it turns outs out you’re the murderer, please call up your Mama and sing her Queen._ Before he has a chance to start grinning she follows up with: _You know like Mamaaaaaaaaaa, just killed a maaaaaaaan!_

Derek will definitely fucking do that. His Mama will love it. Half of him hopes she’ll miss the call so he can leave her a voice message and a permanent recording. He tells his Mom she’s a whimsical genius and then goes about practicing some poses. He wants to have a good feel for the character or else he’ll never been able to sell her to anyone else. His Dad had given him some tips yesterday about carrying himself and he wants to see how it looks. He gets some character appropriate expressions figured out and some practice on her vocal register when his sister begins spamming the chat.

_Love it._

_Why don't you wear it all the time?_

_Particularly the colour._

_Damn I bet I’d look bombass in that colour too._

_Also why haven't you done your makeup?_

_You're starting real fucking soon._

Derek groans at that. He hadn’t decided on whether or not makeup was necessary. Characters in murder mysteries always knew one another for decades or they were holidaying somewhere. Either way he couldn’t image this was an occasion for makeup, not for his character. Still he was kinda tempted just so he could complete the look.

He hears the door open and close back in his room and quickly pulls the bathroom door to.

“Oh shit,” Dex says, “you’re in there.”

Derek pauses with the door all but closed, shut enough so Dex can’t see in. “Did you need to be in here?” There had never been a downside to sharing a bathroom with Chowder and having a second exit wouldn't start that now.

“Nah I was just stating the obvious I guess,” Dex says. “You surprised me.”

“Chill,” Derek says, hesitantly letting go of the door handle. “You all dressed up with someplace to go?”

“Yeah,” Dex says, “I’m ready. The house looks good by the way.”

Derek is tempted to push the door all the way open and ruin the surprise because it's been awkward on occasion between them since everything went down and making small talk through their bathroom door is an unnecessary bonus. “Thanks,” he says instead. Legit all they did was dust the main areas and shove back the furniture for standing room. He finds himself tensing in expectation. It's been that kind of week.

“Hey,” Dex says and Derek is getting tired of people broaching sensitive topics like they’re a new conversation. It's all at him no matter what they’re talking about. “How’ve you been lately?”

Derek grunts. Then sighs. “That feel when know what you want but aren't sure you can have it.”

“Ah,” Dex says, then quietly, “soft same.”

They let that stand in silence for a moment. He feels like it's important they appreciate the instances when they agree, they so often clash it's nice to have support settle between them like maybe they’re building up instead of tearing down this time.

“Wanna talk about it?” Dex says awkwardly and Derek can hear ‘with me?’ echo uncertainty behind Dex’s words. His mind scoffs ‘with you?’ in Derek’s own unbelieving head. Its a knee jerk reaction but tonight's not the night to evaluate that response.

“Nope,” he says popping the ‘p’. He doesn’t offer the same in return, doesn’t care to.

There’s some shuffling on the other side of the door and then: “Well, Chowder will listen when you're ready.”

Derek freezes, his heart racing in his chest as his body tenses in preparation to bolt. It takes him a couple of breaths for the realisation that _he doesn’t know_ to sink in. Dex doesn’t know. He can't, they haven't been hanging out as a group of three so often lately. He’d just expertly worded a placating sentiment to perfectly scare the _shit_ out of him.

Worse, Derek doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready. Chowder is his _best friend._ He won’t risk that for anything. Especially not for those vague comments he’d gotten from Farmer earlier in the week. He’s trepadicious and aching enough over this as is. He won’t hurt himself more than he already has.

“It's almost on the hour,” Derek says. He hasn’t checked the time recently but it should be and a change of perspective usually changes the topic.

“I’m so fucking pumped for this,” Dex says easily, excitably.

Derek can’t help but laugh a little, the anticipation for tonight hitting him the same. It's the same feeling he has moments before sharing some of his writing with someone he loves. He put a fuck ton into this character. He has enough ideas to write a story or a poem with her. Maybe an epic. He feels giddy with it. “I’m so hype, man, y’know, hype the fuck right now and Ford’s hype _man_ right now. Right _always_. It's the least she deserves.”

“Hard same,” Dex says with a laugh, “but in a way cooler way than you made that sound.”

“Full offense, Dex, I’m always cooler than you. _Especially_ when I’m being cute and dropping my cool for my friends. You’re from buttfuck Maine, your exoskeleton is made up of plaid, the most unimaginative cheese is your favourite food I’m sure. The best you can achieve is like ‘hip’ in the way old white men in their midlife-crisis movies talk about new trends or like lumberjack chic. Give it up; we at SMH can more than respect the ‘simple pleasures in life’ vibe you’ve got going.”

He can hear Dex deliberating on the other side. He wonders what he’s prioritising right now: his emotional response to that list of digs or the fact Derek is teasing him like there’s no consequence. Like they had teased one another before the coin toss. Will Dex force a consequence?

He clears his throat and Derek tries to figure out why he’s so invested in this. “You mean you can’t respect me in khakis and white knee-high socks? Maybe sandals for accessibility?”

“That’s the one!” Derek says kind of thrilled Dex got the joke, Grandpa style turned the fuck up. “And never.”

“And yet you respect Jack. So what's the truth?”

Derek makes a noise lowkey like the men at the end of [the rap battle parody](https://youtu.be/MeB3eYk1Ze0?t=248). He hears Dex laugh on the other side of the door and its an image he struggles to understand: Dex waiting awkwardly outside their closed bathroom just so he and Derek can talk. Like he gets Dex has issues and a fucked up view of the world thanks to his white man status but that doesn’t mean it's easy for Derek to keep up with.

“We should probably go downstairs,” Dex says softly, the smile still in his voice.

“Yeah,” Derek says and in the bathroom mirror he can also see a smile edging onto his face. He’s not sure how long it will last. He’s had the precursor to a potential fight with Farmer today, the promise for an Important™ conversation with Chowder to come, this odd reach for reconnection with Dex and now an involved party game with six of his boisterous friends. If he doesn’t spend the entire weekend in social isolation to recover from today then he won’t be recovering for a good couple of weeks and he’s already sick and tired of people coming up to him saying: ‘hey’.

 

* * *

 

Derek runs into Whiskey on the landing. He’s in a burnt orange polo, starched white slacks, gleaming white shoes and the comb-over he had in first year. Its decidedly disorientating and if the victim dies tonight by way of a golf club he’ll know exactly which chad did it.

Whiskey looks Derek up and down with his mouth quirked and Derek can’t help smiling back. He _knows_ he looks good, he dressed to impress.

Dex steps out of their room and the utter shock of his character has Derek taking a step back, Kill Bill sirens sounding off in his head.

Whiskey doesn’t blink. He gives Dex a smug smile and hooks his thumb in Derek’s direction, “The brown of Nursey’s skin and that shade of violet? Complementary colours.”

The sneer on Dex’s face and the sudden compliment warms Derek enough to drag him free of his shock. “Dexy. What.” He finds himself raising his hands? In defense? To ward him off? “On _earth_ are you wearing?”

Dex runs his hand down his awful yellow tracksuit sheepishly. The parallel lines on the arms and legs are an off grey, the suit ill fitting and too short in the leg. He’s...barefoot? Derek is so taken aback he considers grabbing onto Whiskey for balance.

Dex laughs awkwardly at the looks on their faces, his own colouring red. “Yeah I know. I’m ah, trying not to take myself so seriously lately.”

Derek and Whiskey share an joyful expression. “Let me help you out,” Derek says, “that colour is _terrible_ on you.”

And low and behold Dex laughs, “I know right.”

Whiskey blinks in disorentiation. “He’s knows?” He puts a hand to his head and staggers down the stairs. “Thank fucking Christ.”

Dex looks _so_ pleased with himself as he tugs on the tracksuits hoodie strings. Derek snorts, bumping Dex affectionating as he passes and heads down. Whiskey stills in the kitchen door and Derek hears a voice in the kitchen – Tango – say something to him. It has Whiskey throwing himself into the room with a lurch.

It's no wonder. Lying on the kitchen table, in stark black and startling stillness, is a body bag.

Derek is at once disturbed and elated. “Oh my fucking _god_ , Ford for president.”

Whiskey starts laughing from where he’s attempting to unzip the bag. Tango, dressed in a blue silk waistcoat and lace up chaps, shoos his hands away. “Ford says we have to wait. She has a proper reveal planned.”

“Of fucking course she does,” Derek says guestering Dex towards the bag in delight. “Look at this horror show!”

Tango pats the body bag like he’s a straight man who blew all his money on a eight-cylinder sports car. “Job well done.” He kicks his foot up onto a chair and Derek can see his reflection in the shine of his smart black boots.

“You had some cleaning of your own to do hey?” he says flicking at Tango’s knee.

Tango nods, twisting his foot so everyone can see better. “I polished them with banana peel.”

“Gross,” Whiskey says, “speaking of yellow, what kept you so busy about your lazy outfit you couldn’t help Ford and Nurse out?”

Dex huffs a sigh and pulls out a chair. The fading red of his face intensifies. “I bet my excuse is a shit as yours.”

“No riding one another when you’re in the same boat,” Derek says hopping up onto the counter.

“There’s no alliances tonight, Nursey,” Tango says, his grin sly, “only suspicion.” He nods in Whiskey’s direction. “That’s why he’s being a dick when his ‘costume’ is no more complicated. Get your head in the game.”

Whiskey leans over and smacks Tango, sending him reeling with laughter. He starts round the table like he’s got an earful for Tango when the doorbell rings.

There’s a pause from everyone gathered in the kitchen. Dex rises slowly from his seat. “I don’t know—we have a doorbell that people can ring?”

“That’s irrelevant, we’re a walk in establishment,” Derek says suspiciously. Tango apparently had the right idea about tonight’s Mood™.

They move as one curious organism into the hallway, a tight fit for four men of their size, and Whiskey hauls the door open. Posed artfully in the doorway is Darth Maul and a superb Drag King. Derek may have gone hard on his character’s personality, but he’s not ashamed to say he’s been outclassed in the costume department.

Tango points accusingly at Bitty, glancing faultingly at Ford, “Ford, you’re brilliant, I’ll get back to you. Bitty, you’re a Sith?!”

Bitty smirks under his red and black face paint, his robes swirling smoothly around his body. “Well I’m certainly too emotional to be Jedi.”

“ _That’s the catch_ ,” Tango mutters to himself, before cheering: “Ford!”

She laughs in delight and steps into the Haus. “You all look suitably stunned,” she says, her voice low and smokey. Derek wants to twirl her around like he and his sister do with one another when they’re dressed to the nines. Ford is wearing a baby pink shirt with a wide open collar and a truly gorgeous thatch of chest hair on show. On the bottom she has simple boot cut slacks in a dense black and clumping great combat boots. Her visage is the kicker: Ford has clearly let shrinkage do its magic, her hair now appearing inches short and stylishly shaped. Best of all surrounding her smiling mouth her cheeks are roughened with a neat five o’clock shadow.

“Ford,” Derek says taking her hand in wonder, “If I hadn’t already had my gay panic.”

She throws her head back with a laugh that can only be described as triumphant. “Come on, boys, we’ve got a night to make.”

Derek shoots off a text to Chowder as they all gather around the kitchen table. Bitty looks incensed and begs the question: “does the corpse case really need to be on my kitchen table, _Ford?_ ” He pours everyone a glass of wine cooler into their dwindling plastic cup set when she insists that _it does indeed_. Chowder responds to his: ‘you’re gonna be late for a very important date, white rabbit’ text with with: ‘i’m fucking cominggg’.

Derek can’t help but wonder what Chowder is wearing. He hadn’t been able to come clean up tonight either yet the star factor of everyone’s costumes still range from the rags to riches. Its up in the air and as exciting as all the other mysteries tonight holds.

Derek doesn’t have to wait long. Chowder texts him a warning when he’s coming up the path. It doesn’t do much for Derek other than y'know make his predictably nervous stomach twist itself in knots. What could they need to talk about to such a supreme extent that it’d have Derek avoiding with Chowder’s girlfriend despite not knowing why? Sure, he can hazard a guess and _definitely_ has been but that doesn’t make the idea any more factual.

He hears the door being thrown open and then the pounding of footsteps before Chowder throws himself into the doorway. “I’m here!” The hood of his onesie falls down as he lands and Chowder quickly flings it back up, the line of the shark’s teeth sitting just at his brow. There’s a mix of groaning and laughter in response and Derek find himself doing both.

“Listen,” Chowder says, plucking at his Shark’s sweater he has on over the top of a shark onesie, “none of you would let my love for aquatic creatures—romantic amphibian men in particular—rest so this is what you _get._ ” He’s wearing classic California bro flip flops on his bouncing feet and Derek is one part horrified and then two parts horrified when he finds there are a whole lot of other parts of him that are fluttering happily in his chest.

“Wait,” Chowder says, his face pulling in concern, “is that a body bag?”

Ford spreads her arms out to showcase the spectacle. “I made a trade with the theatre department for our victim.”

“There’s a body in there?” Dex says, his voice breathy.

“Bruh, you can see the shape of it,” Tango says running his hand up what is likely the mannequin’s leg.

“Okay, gross,” Whiskey says ripping Tango’s hand away and clutching it tight. “Don’t do that.”

“Wait until I reveal the victim,” Ford says, a wicked glint in her eye. Everyone backs up from around the table as Ford begins unzipping the body bag.

“I’m not scared,” Chowder whispers in Derek’s ear, his hand wrapped around Derek’s bicep as they press up against the counter.

“No, me neither,” Derek says, clutching at Chowder’s Shark’s jumper in return.

“Mannequin’s are just creepy as fuck,” Chowder goes on, crowding in closer when Ford’s beaming smile stretches at whatever she glimpses of her creation.

“Right, right,” Derek agrees with a hasty shrug, “I mean that Doctor Who episode traumatised us all as kids right?” He gestures to Whiskey and Dex who have that bro look about them when they won’t let themselves back down but are obviously freaked. Bitty seems moments away from turning the wine bottle into a club and Tango, clearly unaffected, is all but pressed up against Ford’s back in eagerness.

Ford takes in a look at her captive audience and then, with all the flair of the ringleader in the big top, throws back the cover. “Let me introduce you to tonight’s victim.”

“Ooh!” Tango says delighted, “It’s mustard dick!”

Derek and Chowder sag into one another with a smothered laugh and it takes everything Derek has not to look at Dex. Chowder pats lightly at Derek’s stomach, shaking his head in warning even as he grins broadly. Ford truly is a gift that he will never stop appreciating.

Derek swallows when Chowder’s hand stops moving and rests lightly across his abdomen, his big goalie hand with its long thick fingers loose and relaxed. He’s sure Chowder must feel when he stops breathing which is _absolutely_ _not_ when he needs right now so Derek pulls away and joins the crowd around the body. He makes sure there’s a couple of people between him and Chowder before he can rest.

Colonel Mustard is faceless except for a cheap store bought mustache in primary colour yellow. He has on a khaki windbreaker with a sunny collar peeking through. On his chest lays an envelope with: “Avenge me!!!” written in Ford’s scratchy handwriting.

“And by avenge,” she says, leaning over the body with little care for how she jostles it, “I mean the murderer receives no arrest, no trial, maybe some fanfare, but mostly: no consequence.”

“Get out of jail free card,” Tango whispers.

“Correct,” Ford says, “So rules. It’s pretty much like Clue but the Haus is the game board. We don’t have squares, we’ll just count our steps. I’ve made up rudimentary cards because this is the Samwell edition. We won’t have physical weapons because none of us want to be running them all over the Haus when someone makes their suspicions known. Otherwise the rules are pretty much the same. I’ll be giving prompts as we go through when I need an action for you. Just know that when you suspect something you announce it and the next person in line gets a chance to disprove it. When you’re making an accusation you ask me and I’ll let you privately look in the envelope. Questions?”

“So we roll the dice to get our step count yeah?” Bitty begins, he continues on Ford’s nod, “but not everyone has the same gait.”

There’s some immature sniggering around the room laughing at the fact Bitty brought up and acknowledged he’s short. Oh _in comparison_ excuse us.

“We have metre long rulers in the Maths department?” Tango says. “Though I’m not sure this counts as a legitimate excuse.” He shrugs in exaggeration and suddenly his words sound a lot more provocative.

“But wait,” Derek says, jumping on board and at this point it's 85% to be contrary, “we aren’t ourselves so we should be stepping with the gait of our characters.”

“For fucks sake,” Ford says, shooting Derek and Tango some pissed off eyes, “everyone over 6 foot step normally, everyone under can overreach.”

More sniggering makes it around the room and despite getting a fair deal, Bitty scowls at the lot of them.

“Any other questions?” Ford asks. Her palms are spread wide and braced on the lifeless mannequin, it's an intimidating look. “No? ‘sawesome. Next up: overview of the Haus and weapons.”

Derek just about vibrates in excitement.

Ford twirls a finger in the air to encompass the building. “Starting right here, where the body will lay in wait, we have Bitty’s **Kitchen**.”

“That’s what we’re calling it in the murder game?” Bitty asks. “It’s _my_ kitchen? Even though I don’t exist in this world? If this murder made it onto the news it would still be Bitty’s kitchen?”

“Yep,” Ford says, “This is your kitchen in every universe.”

Derek watches Bitty flush and slowly preen at the idea. It’s true and she should say it.

“Beyond that the other nine rooms are made up of: the **Attic** , the **Reading Room** , the **Living Room** , the **Basement** , Bitty’s **Closet** , The Tub Juice **Tub** , the front **Porch** , and the **Backyard**.”

Bitty pulls a face like he wants to protest his closet but he laughs along with everyone else. Derek’s gonna text Shitty a photo of mustard dick in the tub with #yourlegency attached next time the man’s sad. As for his game plan, he’s going to ignore the **Basement** and **Attic**. The ground floor and the one above it have seven locations total all packed in together, its free real estate. 

“Those are all horrible places to die,” Bitty declares, “but good places to off someone. I approve.”

Tango raises his hand in the air. “Those two girls that died here in the 90s. Does that make this an insensitive game to play?”

Silence falls over them. There’s a moment where heads begin dipping in the beginnings of reflexive shame and their eyes land on the body bag sprawled across the kitchen table. Everyone flinches, unsure where to look.

“Ah, did that actually happen? I know Ransom swears up and down there aren’t any ghosts here and it would be incredibly cruel to ignore the fact that something clearly used to upset him when he lived here but did anyone actually die back then?” Dex says tentatively.

Bitty leans forward, speaking slowly, his eyes turned away as he chooses his words carefully. “I think it's like Johnson? And the owner of the Haus? There’s that limbo where these things aren’t only unquestioned but also never acknowledged.”

“Who the fuck is Johnson?” Chowder says. His eyes are steady like he’s deep in his thought and desperately trying to remember a dream long after waking.

“The goalie who came before you. He gave you the red and blue pills,” Bitty says, his voice sure, before trailing off as he seemingly recalls what he just, “...remember?”

“I guess I took the blue pill?” he says, his lovely brows furrowed. He looks between Dex and Derek but Derek’s _pretty fucking sure_ he’d remember that if Chowder had told him.

“So? Yes or no two women died here? Yes or no we continue?” Ford says, disappointment pulling her mouth down. This took a sudden demoralising turn. Derek’s not even sure Ford knew about the potential ghosts.

“Jesus Christ,” Whiskey says looking at Ford’s face, “I’m Googling it.” His thumbs flick over the screen rapidly before stopping suddenly. “It just says there was a rush event during a party and then…the Haus was abandoned immediately after. No mention of any accidents but the place was still deserted, that makes no sense?’

Ford’s head whips around to face Derek. “An actual murder mystery.”

“Fuuuuck,” he says, leaning back in shock and shaking the table excitedly. “What the fuck are we doing with our lives, Ford? We’ve got a case to solve.”

Someone clears their throat from the kitchen doorway and even though Derek has no recollection of the man before him he inexplicably knows its Johnson. His hands spread wide in a ‘want can you do?’ kinda way. “As life changing as a Ford and Nursey Crime Fiction AU ala Scooby Doo would be this story is operating under the realm of imagination and the canon expanded universe, not alternate universe. Anyway I don’t want to, like, distract from the plot? I mean, anymore so, but Jenny and Mandy canonically are almost entirely regulated to extra content. Bar their one page appearance in the webcomic they’re only once confirmed to have actually died in an ask someone sent Ngozi back in 2013. So this author’s point/answer to this potential insensitivity is like completely irrelevant and almost entirely vindictive but: those ghosts sexually harassed Ransom? For a running joke? She thinks we can agree to let this minor murder mockery slide, y’know?”

“What?” Whiskey says.

The kitchen doorway is empty and Derek’s not sure why it holds all the eyes of the room.

“...as I was saying,” Ford goes on. “I’d suggest you write these locations down because you’ll need to be checking them off.”

“Where’s our cool notebooks?” Chowder asks. “We can’t be detectives without notebooks for making notes. Nursey will die without the aesthetic.” Derek bites back a ridiculously pleased smile; hey, the man knows him.

“We have mobile phones in the year of our Lord 2018, utilise them.” Ford’s grin turns wicked. “Next we have the weapons. Are you ready for it?”

She actually waits for everyone to respond much to their collective impatience. “First: Dex’s **Wrench**.” Derek _loves_ the idea, though why just the wrench when you can knock someone over the head with his whole overflowing toolbox? Dex apparently loves the idea too, his laughing tips him back so far he wobbles on his seat.

“Second: a **Pen**.” Ford makes convert eye contact with Derek for this one. It gives him pause, like a word on the tip of his tongue.

“A pen?” Tango says.

“Ya.”

“Why?”

“The pen is mightier than the sword. And no dildo on hand.”

Everyone devolves into laughter at that image and Ford looks _delighted_. Derek’s gonna call her a nerd for the rest of her life. While also cherishing her of fucking course.

“Third,” Ford says, “the six month old **Yogurt** in the back of Bitty’s fridge.”

“Why does everything belong to me?” Bitty says in exasperation. He does nothing to hide his smile.

“It's the Captain's responsibility,” Ford says in holier than thou voice. “Fourth: 1000 **Cockroaches**.”

“Ooh I love that our hockey team has inside jokes that travel down generations,” Chowder says, “It shows we’re family.”

Derek would grab his hand up if they were dating and squeeze the fuck out of it to avoid a fine because goddamn is he _lovely_.

“Fifth: Pop! Six! Squish! Uh uh! Cicero, Lipschitz!” Ford says with a smug look.

“Wow,” Whiskey replies, “these theatre references, so inclusive.”

“You got it, you’re included,” Ford bites out.

“It doesn’t even make sense, that’s six weapons in one,” Whiskey argues. Derek gets the impression Ford and Whiskey’s friendship is built entirely on riling one another up.

“Ultimate weapon,” Ford replies. “Also: it’s called a signifier. Derek, my Lit nerd?”

“As my dear drama nerd is saying: the sounds are signifiers, the signifiers are representative. The sounds _represent_ the methods of killing in the movie Chicago, like shorthand. Paired together those words mean: ‘this is how the victim was murdered’. You translated it without even thinking. ” He can’t help but feel smug about this one also. Its goddamn clever of her. “Do we have to say all of them though?”

“Of course not,” Ford says, “You have to sing them.” Derek fucking _will_. Whiskey on the other hand looks about ready to revolt at this and seems to only stay in his seat because Tango is laughing into his shoulder.

“And finally,” Ford says before Whiskey can argue again. She turns her head slowly and makes a show of staring Chowder down like he’s the barrel of a gun. “One measly hockey **Puck**.”

Chowder’s face screws up, torn between laughing and grimacing. “Ford, don’t joke,” he says and if Derek hadn’t known him so long he wouldn’t be able to pick up on that fact Chowder says this line with both utter seriousness and complete humour. Schrodinger's response from Ford’s perspective.

Ford chooses to escalate and destroys the entire team with: “Hockey’s a joke.”

“Ford,” Bitty says with a stifled laugh, “please continue.”

“Alright!” Ford shouts in her rehearsal voice, “Everyone into the living room for character introductions and scene setting!”

Ford had them all crowd onto the green sofa, taking centre stage of the living room for herself. She opens her mouth to speak and something gives her pause, her eyes softening. “You make a surprisingly beautiful rainbow for a load of hockey jocks.”

Bitty raised his hand decisively. “There’s have a selfie stick in the one of the kitchen draws someone left at the last kegster.” Derek's actually almost 100% sure that's a lie Ransom made up to hide his angle tricks.

Ford placed her hands together and raised them above her head. “May the fastest hockey player in the room receive the stick.”

Bitty shoots out of the room with a laugh and is back within moments. “Gather ‘round y’all. We’ll get this framed.”

Derek glances at Chowder perched on the arm to the left of him and to Dex sitting to his right. No matter what he was feeling right now, this would be a photo for the ages. Once it was taken, that was it—this moment existed: it was immortalised. Any time it survived in the future were the immortal ages that followed. Whether he never looked at it again or kept it in his wallet for life it hardly mattered. In this brief moment of captured time no one would remember what they were thinking. No one would know what disappointments people were sick with. All that would matter was what could be seen. This photo would have Derek sitting between his d-man and his goalie, two people he’d played _good_ hockey with for four long years. That mattered. That was worth remembering.

“Come a little bit closer,” Derek half-sings, gesturing them in towards him. They fall into him laughing, Chowder’s hand braced on his thigh and Dex’s arm tucked behind his back. Derek presses his face between their’s and lets himself have this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i knooo i cut this when the game was just about to begin and /i'm sorry/ but this chapter was at the same word count as the last /and/ the final chapter is almost 12k bc i physically could not break the game up so you're welcome.  
> also did i use four different ways to format texts in this?? yes i did. i want to give the coding a go but it seems my texts are always either a group chat - which i've never seen done on ao3 - or not long enough to warrant an entire visual of a phone screen.  
> in other news i've been waiting my entire life to break the fourth wall but my beta - shout out to SunsetWanderLust here on ao3 - questioned its importance so if it was jarring or pointless or whatever, just let me kno what you think. this whole fic is quite experimental for me so i'd really appreciate the feedback.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright guys this is the final chapter and it is a long ass piece bc The Game is on ,i wrote the details of the game like pretty explicitly so i want to kno if its boring or your eyes start skipping. this is new to me and experimental too and if it doesn't work that's fine! i'll rework it so feedback would be appreciated.

Ford lowers the lights with the dimmer switch Dex installed last month to begin. It shouldn’t have such an awe inspiring effect considering its only used for kegsters and to add a little spooky atmosphere to horror movie nights. Yet with Ford employing power poses, the street light creeping in through the sheer curtains behind her, and the way she speaks with her hands—Ford holds the room in suspense. It's not hard to believe this Haus is haunted when she speaks. The chill slithering down Derek’s sweaty spine makes it easy to believe two people died a gruesome death in this building. With the plumbing creaking overhead and Ford laughing up a storm no one else is quite sure they’re allowed to join in on, Derek thrills at the disquiet weaving throughout the Haus.

“Let me introduce myself,” she says with an enticing smile. “I am Pink Flamingos, a Las Vegas Drag King. It is said that, Bugsy Siegel, a 1940s mobster named his hotel and casino after his girlfriend, Virginia Hill, an avid gambler. The ‘Flamingo’ title was inspired by her long skinny legs. The gossips are mistaken though, the resort is named after _me._ Bugsy and I had a run in back in ‘48 when he told me to clear off his stolen turf. I told him he could take it up with the devil on his way to hell or he could take it up with me in the back alley. The coward didn’t choose either, but he did buy me a gorgeous red Chevrolet the next time I bossed him around.” She gives a cheeky smile and a tiny bow, a slow fluid movement. Derek put his thumb and finger in his mouth and whistles.

“Fuck, Ford,” he cheered. “When’s your screenplay coming out?!”

Ford’s persona falls away and she gives a bashful laugh. “I’ve got to get my degree first.” She snaps back into character with a click of her fingers. “Darth Maul, you’re up.”

“I can’t say I have such a stunning introduction as Pink Flamingos,” Bitty says somewhat awkwardly. “Just a few facts. Darth Maul’s the main antagonist in The Phantom Menace, he’s Darth Sidious’s apprentice and he wields a cool, if ill advised, double-bladed lightsaber. Is there anything y’all wanted to know?’

“Where is your lightsaber?” Tango asks urgently.

“Back on Iridonia, my home planet, I heard weapons were being prepared in advance,” he says.

Chowder leans in and whispers viciously in Derek’s ear, “I know the murderer hasn’t even been drawn yet but that’s fucking suspicious.”

“For all we know,” Derek says, “Bitty _does_ have a fully functioning double-bladed lightsaber under that cloak.” He presses his foot down heavily into Chowder’s for emphasis and Chowder laughs behind his hand. One of Derek’s dreams growing up had been to own a lightsaber—what kid hadn’t had that dream? He’d wanted Mace Windu’s sword more than he’d wanted to drink water once upon a time.

“Next! Nursey!” Ford calls.

Derek jumps to his feet and makes sure to check his clothes for wrinkles before he starts. Every piece of clothing has been ironed and steamed for tonight. The soft knit crew neck in black, long sleeved with his forearms exposed, is tucked into violet business casual pants with a tie waist and creases ironed down the fronts of his legs to give them a sharp look. He’d been tempted to go with a simple black heel but he’s not great in them so he’d stuck with his black boots. Derek clears his throat and pitches his voice to a sweet tenor. “As you know the colour purple is associated with royalty, ambition, grandeur and creativity. I used these traits to inspire my character.”

Derek gestures loosely to his pants with a lazy flick of his fingers. “Yolanda, the name derived from the word violet, is Afro-Colombian born and bred. She grew up with little money in the family, thanks to poor spending habits on both hers and her mother’s part. And cough-capitalism-cough. She struggled through three years of a Bachelor of Architectural Design with dreams of lazing buildings that curved with natural coastlines and graduated in 2010 to be immediately hired onto a large firm. After six grueling month of being browbeaten with grey wash skyscrapers that carved up cities with sharp ugly lines, six months of money coming in easy and her aspirations grinding out hard, Yolanda quit the firm. She spent a year working as a secretary in a small scale NGO for impoverished youth. While there she never saw the kids beyond her comings and goings, those long months were spent locked up in a back office filing and entering data into spreadsheets. Yolanda came to love the stories her coworkers told her about this little community and came to hate the cramped office space. She now works for a private airport and specialises in skywriting. She adores the open air she soars through daily and her favourite messages to write are congratulations for graduating students. Yolanda wishes them well and knows every one of them will find what they’re looking for.”

Derek receives a round of applause for his performance and he finds he can’t get a word of thanks past his stunned smile. He’d known she was good but the confirmation is heart-warming.

“I’d like her as a friend,” Dex says sweetly when Derek sits.

Chowder pulls him under his arm and squeezes him tight. “You brought her to _life_ , Derek.”

Derek sucks in a breath and manages to shake his head at the compliment Ford has coming. He needs a moment. He wants to get up there again. He’s so fucking pleased with himself. He doesn’t move from under Chowder’s arm. He doesn’t know how great an idea that is. He stays there anyway and enjoys the praise.

Dex jumps up next, diving straight in. “I’m Simon Davin Seabrooke and I’m always up to personally train you.” His voice goes gruff and he grows intense with the eye contact. “Seriously, people, just hit me up. I’ll give you a good deal.”

There’s a bewildered silence for a moment and then Chowder says, “How shady.”

Dex laughs. “I based him off of the character designs they have in CSI: Miami.”

“Oh I love that show,” Tango says. “My character tells puns—” he mimes putting sunglasses on “—to undermine brutal murders.”

Chowder shoots Derek a look and honestly he fucking knows they both plan on putting sunglasses on like that around Dex for the rest of his G-d given life. Derek will make sure they do it in tandem for maximum damage.

“Chowder,” Ford says, her finger pointed where she wants him.

He strikes a pose, knees slightly bent, mouth half open and arms held out straight like fins. It’s not so dissimilar to his stance in goal. “I’m left shark’s cousin. Raised in the pacific, swum the seven seas. I swim as fast as your Usain Bolt can run and for just as long. I holiday in the Bay Arena, oh sorry, the California Bay Arena for you uncultured swines. Graduated from MIT twice with degrees in Biological and Biomedical Sciences, and Physical Sciences. I’m looking for a job in acupuncture science, I’m not qualified but my teeth are sharper than needles and that’s how you do acupuncture. I dislike your governing body and its political alignments as I subscribe to absolutism as long as I’m the one who’s in charge. I want to retire in a freshwater river beside a ex-circus horse farm. I love horses but can’t eat a whole one. My goal in life is to eat one whole horse. I’m not even close yet but I’m still young and aerodynamic – with a specialisation in hydrodynamics – and have five years left in my existmated life expectancy. I can eat a horse in five years. I could probably eat three if I really wanted.”

He bobs up and down on his bent knees while Derek gapes at him. “What’s your name?” he manages to gasp out, his stomach cramping with laughter.

Chowder looks him dead in the eye, his mouth just barely curling and says: “I’m sorry, sharks have no concept of names.”

Derek’s still curled on his side, head in Chowder’s lap, tears leaking freely as he laughs when Whiskey steps up to the bat. He gives a sniff as he looks them all over.

“My orange man is a LAX buh- _ro_ ,” he says.

“bROO WHAT??” SMH choruses.

“The odds of Richard being the murderer is one in six,” he says savagely, pointing a finger sharply at the lot of them. “We’ll see who the real monsters are by the end of tonight.”

“...bro what?” Chowder says.

Derek’s not going to survive tonight, he’s having far too good a time.

“You troll, get away,” Ford says, “Tango you’re finishing.”

He stands reluctantly. “You guys all went super modern and not anyone who belongs in a Clue murder mystery so that’s cool and like I didn’t realise this would be set in the Haus so—”

“Get to the point,” Whiskey says.

“—I’m the Haus groom.”

Ford stands, cupping her hands over her mouth. “You’re our collective husband??”

Tango sighs, “No, groom like stableman.” Which explains the fancy chaps. Derek was wondering if he was supposed to in the BDSM scene or a bard in a DnD campaign. He should have figured Tango would go complete historical accuracy.

“We have a horse!” Ford half-shouts. “And a shark that eats horses?!”

“Not yet he doesn’t,” Chowder says. “Unless you’re willing to donate for practice.”

“ _No,_ ” Tango says, shooting Ford a dirty look. “We have two horses. Their names are May and Flower like Mayflower y’know? It's just a bit of fun.”

“That’s why we’re here, boyo,” Ford says, “Start that intro.”

“My name is Rinaldo Mercurio, I was born in Turin, Piedmont, Italy, I’m age 79 and my life expectancy is 85, I will die of an unspecified illness, my blood type is A+, I’m right handed—” Ford interrupts with: “Is it all like this?” and he smirks, “yes, sir.”

“Well, cool,” Ford says slowly. “That’s everyone. It’s time I handed out the cards and Walkie-talkies and we get started.”

“We get Walkie-talkies,” Dex hisses, rabid like the handyman he is. Derek’s gonna do everything he can to persuade Ford they should be permanently installed in the Haus. No one will ever have to shout again. It’ll be bliss.

Ford hands out three cards to each person and tucks three neatly away in the ‘Avenge Me’ envelope. She tucks that into her waistband and gives everyone a Walkie-talkies. “I got these from the theatre department again. _Don’t_ break any one of them or you will be buying a whole new set.” Derek will just have to buy a set for the Haus then, he’ll get enough for one in each bedroom.

He reluctantly pulls himself out of Chowder’s lap as every gets moving. He probably shouldn’t have had the cup of wine. It hadn’t done jack shit to him but wine makes him sleepy and relaxed a few drinks in and one’s enough for placebo to whisper him some suggestions. Sweet suggestions that would have him curling further into Chowder’s no doubt welcoming embrace.

“We have phones though?” Whiskey says, looking at his doubtfully.

Tango groans loudly and Ford throws her arms up in the air. Tango turns to Ford dramatically and says: “Richard killed mustard dick and his next victim will be joy.”

Ford looks confused. “Who’s Joy?”

Tango blinks at her. “You know, like, killjoy?”

Whiskey laughs uproariously at this. “Fantastic delivery, Tony.”

Chowder prods at Derek, “These Tadpoles really are baby Frogs.” Derek can see it but it would have been nice if they had gotten along so easily from the get go. He shoves that thought way. He’s getting sick of reminiscing about what was and what he can’t have and how its all holding him back.

“Ford,” he says heavily to catch her attention, “It's your time to shine.”

 

* * *

 

The game gets off to a smooth start. Ford sends them to different sections of the Haus; hallways and staircases and gardens far out of the way. No one’s too close to any of the nine rooms so the first round is simply a casting of the die and stepping up. Derek’s starting point is in the garden around the left side of the Haus. He has the **Backyard** and the front **Porch** on either side of him and he picks the **Backyard**. Once inside he’ll be by the stairs should he need to go up a floor as well as being near the **Kitchen** and the **Living Room**.

Bitty gets to the **Tub** on the second round. He’d been placed in the upstairs hallway, set down equidistant from all the bedrooms. Its noteworthy that he picked the **Tub** considering he could have hit his **Closet** and then the **Reading Room** on his next turn. There’s a moment of interference from the Walkie-talkie and then his voice comes through clearly, “I suggest **Bitty** , in the Tub Juice **Tub** , with the **Yogurt**.”

Derek holds the crudely drawn **Yogurt** in his hands, along with the **Basement** and the 1000 **Cockroaches**. They’re going alphabetically in order and for the usual ‘person to the left disproves’ rule they’re taking the order backwards. Whiskey doesn’t respond anywhere Derek can hear him so Whiskey either has **Bitty** or the **Tub** . Derek makes a note and ends up bouncing on his toes in excitement. It feels good to be out here in the dark. The only light is coming from the moon above, the world quiet around him. The lack of stimuli is settling and other than a slight chill in the air Derek’s mind is clear and undistracted. He’ll be at the **Backyard** by his next turn and then the games will really begin.

Chowder, it turns out, has other plans. He hits the **Basement** and calls easily for **Nursey** , the **Basement** , before painstakingly reads through Pop! Six! Squish! Uh uh! Cicero, Lipschitz! It makes Derek smile even as he has to rewrite his first move. He has the **Basement** card in hand. Now he’s gotta make his way from there to the **Backyard** _after_ making a suggestion in the basement so not to make it obvious he _has_ the **Basement** card.

“Yo, C,” Derek says when he reaches the top of the basement stairs. Chowder look up from his phone where he’s perched happily on the dryer and he looks so pleased to see Derek. “I had a plan. What’re you cockblocking for?”

Chowder presses his lips together to suppress a smile. “ _Either_ way you were doomed.”

Derek stops just short of pushing himself affectionately between Chowder’s thick thighs and smiles helplessly. “You useless cheat.” Still now he knows two of Chowder’s cards and three rooms that can be ruled out - the **Basement** , the **Backyard** , and the **Porch**. Not to mention Derek heard nothing from Bitty - he’s either got **Nursey** or the **Theatre** reference.

“Useless?” Chowder says curious.

Derek gestures around them lazily. “Talk about a dead end.”

Chowder’s eyes flick to the cards sticking out of Derek’s pocket and laughs. “Shit, now we’re stuck waiting here in this hella dank basement.”

“My plan was way better,” Derek says, leaning a hip against the dyer.

Chowder snorts. “You plan was a worse than mine. At least I could have picked the **Living Room** or the **Kitchen**.”

“But ya didn’t,” Derek says with a smug smile. Chowder huffs another breath of a laugh and Derek catches him tugging at his collar absent-mindlessly. Derek thrills at the sight and gives the neck of Chowder’s jumper a good yank. “What’s this then?! Too much of a good thing??”

Chowder lets out an exasperated sigh. “I’m dying, this double layer of winter clothes was a mistake. I’m a Cali boy, I’m not built for this.”

“C!!” Derek says. “Are you saying the Sharks are a mistake?? I know their last game wasn’t great but really, I never knew your love was so shallow.”

Chowder gives him a good stink eye. “Nursey I will use this onesie as an excuse to bite you, don’t test me.”

Derek bites his lip. “Go on, C, you know you want to.”

Chowder sniffs and looks away dismissively. “Please stop calling me C, you have the wrong person. I’m shark, the shark, and I will bite your self-insert character.”

Derek lets out a sputtering laugh, impressed despite himself. “Yolanda, sweetie!” he says. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry that an ugly ass fucker like this would even say that, oh my God!”

Chowder’s pleased expression twists into mock disappointment. “You’ll selling the pair of us short.”

“You think we’re what? Tens?” Derek says. He can’t help himself. He leans into Chowder’s thigh, carefully to one side so he can’t be tempted to crawl between them and hug his waist. He props himself on the bulk of it and does his best to keep the mooning off his face.

“I’m an eleven but go on,” Chowder says cheekily, walking right into the compliment Derek set up.

“Hey!” Ford shouts and they both jump. She stands at the top of the stairs, hands on hips. “We’ve been calling you. Dex needs your response Chowder.”

“Ah shit,” Chowder says, fumbling for his Walkie, “say it again, Dex.”

Dex makes an exasperated noise. “ **Bitty** in the **Kitchen** with his **Yogurt**.”

“It's not my yogurt,” they hear come indignantly through the Walkie.

Chowder is laughing along with Derek and Ford so it takes him a couple of tries to get his apology out. “I can’t help you, man.” Derek makes note that **Bitty** is again up for grabs, Ford vanishing back onto the first floor with a wink.

“Lol,” Chowder says, dragging the word out, “If Dex wants to rile Bitty up then there’s a much more satisfying option.” He pulls his phone out and Derek presses into his side to see. The man’s as warm as the summer ocean in the Bahamas. He shakes off any thoughts of them being matching beach boys and the ignores how his head teasingly plays _Wouldn't It Be Nice_.

_i dare you to accuse Bitty in the kitchen with the dildo,,,, i mean pen ;)_ \- Chowder texts.

Dex texts back before Derek and Chowder have finished sharing a delighted look. _no way??? Those odds are terrible???_ _  
_

Chowder rebuffs quickly: _scared??? i double dare you_

Derek bumps his forehead against Chowder’s shoulder. “Y’know everyone goes on about how Dex and I make one another revert to children?”

Chowder bounces his shoulder under Derek’s nose affectionately. “Its part of Dex’s makeup. That and that older brother of his. He just responds _so_ easily to taunts.”

The phone pings twice in quick succession:  _alright ifucking will_ and then:  _if you give me one on one shooting practice for the next month in our spare time_

Chowder shoots Derek a very sexy, smug smile. _Lmao deal_ , he replies.

“Jesus,” Derek says rubbing his hands up his arms, “Is the SMH saying ‘got your back’ or ‘watch your back’?” Dex is fucking out of the game, there’s no way he isn’t.

Chowder laughs, throwing his head and his hood off. “We aren’t on the same team right now.”

No one else seems to be playing so viciously, Derek hadn’t even really known you could play Clue with such fervor. He takes his turn gently, picking himself and the **Theatre** reference. Dex doesn’t have either of them. They go through Tango, Whiskey and Bitty – each of them still travelling on the roll of their dice.

Chowder hops off the dyer and pats Derek’s chest. “I’m off to the the living room.”

“I’ll see you,” Derek says. He starts shivering as soon as Chowder’s away from him.

Chowder pauses. “You cold?” He touches his fingers lightly to the bend of Derek’s arm.

“Yeah, I’m never down here long, I didn’t realise how cold it gets.”

Chowder pulls his Shark’s jumper over his head making Derek’s heart trip. “Here, I’ll keep you warm,” he says and _winks_. It's ridiculous, he’s wearing a baggy shark onesie and yet Derek feels his face flare with a heady blush. He hastily tugs on the jumper to hide his face but there’s not much he can do once it comes down. Chowder fixes the hood, his nimble fingers flitting around Derek’s face.

“There,” he says with a satisfied smile. He rolls high enough on the die that he vanishes around the top of the stairs and out of Derek’s sight.

He hugs himself tightly in the jumper. The materials downy in that threadbare kind of way and smells softly of Chowder’s jasmine body wash. Derek swallows and shoves his churning feelings aside. He really needs to talk to C and fucking soon. This is gonna end in tears.

Dex’s voice cuts through the still, quiet of the basement. The Walkie bristles under his cocky tone. “I _accuse_ ,” he says and Derek here’s Ford gasp in the background, “ **Bitty**. In the **Kitchen**. With the _dildo_.” Chowder crows so loudly that Derek hears it from the floor below.

The Walkie crackles in anger and Bitty’s voice comes through sharply. “You’re yanking my chain, William, pulling me back to the **Kitchen** and making such accusations. How do you think I’ll like it?”

Derek sees Bitty stomp past the open basement door and can’t help but smile. Everyone in the Haus is ridiculous enough it's hard to stay down around here.

Ford’s voice is exited with agitation. “Are you sure, Dex? If that isn’t in the envelop you’re out of the game.”

Derek hears Dex very confidently reply that he is, in fact, sure and then moments later the language spilling through the Walkie-talkie would be lethal even on a sailor’s seasoned ear. He doesn’t know what all that swearing means specifically but it's pretty damn hilarious that Dex let Chowder do him like that.  Derek hears bright, joyous laughter spill from every section of the Haus and rolls his dice. He’s only got four assholes left to beat now and a goddamn game to win.

“Hey Dex, would you scream for me?” Ford says over the Walkie.

“Ah yes...? For any particular reason?” Derek can imagine the polite expression on his face as he tries to figure what she’s after and not offend at the same time.

“Well, buddy, you’re dead.”

There’s silence over the Walkie for a moment and Derek notices the stillness of the basement, the sound of a cold and stagnant air in a poorly ventilated room.

A scream cuts through the Haus and crackles in an echo through the Walkie. Derek’s fumbles his with a laugh; the back pops off, the batteries flying out, when it hits the ground. Dex’s shrill scream goes on uncomfortably long; clearly his killer isn’t trying hard enough.

Derek gets the batteries back in the Walkie halfway through Ford’s speech. “—there is a fear in your characters now. An urgency that was only teased at before. You truly realise for the first time there is a killer among you. A killer that could strike at any time.”

Ford’s ominous voice sends a chill down Derek’s spine and a thrill rushing through his blood. He’s raring fucking ready to go again.

Derek rolls his dice on command and makes it to the top of the **Basement** stairs. He can hear Chowder in the **Living Room** as he shifts on the creaking floors.

Tango stays where he is. “ **Tango** , in the **Kitchen** , with the **Yogurt**.”

Derek texts him ‘ **Yogurt** ’ and considers the clues. Everyone now knows Derek has one of those three cards. Derek doesn’t know much else. All he can say is that the **Tango** and **Kitchen** cards could possibly be in the envelope.

Whiskey makes it to the attic on his roll. “ **Bitty** , **Attic** , **Yogurt**.”

Derek doesn’t hear a verbal response from Tango. He makes note that he could have either the **Attic** or **Bitty**. He puts a double asterisk next to **Bitty**. Few other names have been said but the fact that Bitty picked himself on the first round strikes him as suspicious. He’s just not sure _what_ to be suspicious of yet.

Bitty makes little fuss about being dragged to the **Attic** , instead using it to his advantage. “ **Whiskey** in the **Attic** with the **Yogurt**.”

Derek smiles, biting his lip. He loves that as everyone susses out what cards people have they’re using his **Yogurt** as a control.

“Say that over the Walkie,” Derek hears through his own. Ford must be up in the **Attic** with Bitty and Whiskey.

There’s a sigh and then Whiskey says, “I’ve got nothing.”

Derek knows it's good that he’s making note of what cards people _don’t_ have, but it isn’t half as much fun as figuring out what they _do_ have.

Chowder’s voice comes in echo on his turn, from the living room and the Walkie. “ **Nursey** , come to the **Living Room** , Dex’s **Wrench** is here.”

Derek snorts and shoots through. Half a dozen steps and he walks in on Chowder, his face blush coloured as he stares down at his phone.

“What’s this?” Derek says with a pleased grin. “What did Bitty say to get you all hot and bothered?”

Chowder grins sheepishly, waving his phone around like he’s trying to brush it aside. “He has me.”

It takes a moment for that to translate and when it does Derek groans dramatically. “C, you can’t keep telling me what cards people have. You’ll be why the Haus bans board games again. I sense a Taddie riot boiling as is and they aren’t going to play any more fair than you.”

Chowder shrugs indifferently, his smile uninhibited. “You asked.”

Derek sighs ruefully. Chowder might not be the killer but his smile for sure is.

“Nursey, you’re up,” Ford says cheerfully over the Walkie.

He pulls up his notes, caught off guard. It takes him a moment to recall his plan of action.

“ **Nursey** in the **Living Room** with **Theatre** ,” he says, ignoring Ford’s displeased noise with a laugh. He’ll sing her _Cell Block Tango_ next time they drink together. He's too invested in the game to waste sharing his focus around.

Dex tells Derek a flat no over the Walkie and its pretty disappointing. Derek is still potentially the killer which part of him loves but the other half of him wants to play the hero. He wants to ferret out the murderer with deduction and observation and watch with satisfaction as Ford makes a fool of the killer.

His mind lingers on **Bitty** being the killer once more but its based on poor evidence. Barely any names have been said so far. That Bitty’s has been said most often and not been picked isn’t inherently a sign of guilt. Still, his gut makes its suspicions known.

The next three turns see no more suggestions. Tango is on the move while Bitty and Whiskey race to the **Reading Room**. Bitty seems less pleased to have been taken off course now that he’s back on it with company. Whiskey clearly couldn’t care less.

Chowder bounces idly on his toes as he calls out his options. “ **Me** in the **Living Room** with Bitty’s **Yogurt**.”

Derek gives him a pointed look when his phone pings. He doesn’t want to know what cards Bitty has, at least not through cheating. Later maybe when the race is _really_ on, but for now he wants his investigation to be unassisted.

Chowder’s face blushes red from the high peaks of his cheekbones down to the hollow of his throat and Derek really has to resist throwing himself over to touch.

“Yo do you need some alone time?” He can’t say he isn’t enjoying the red hot look Chowder has going on. Couldn’t say he doesn’t enjoy chirping him into even deeper embarrassment either.

“Fuck off,” Chowder says fondly, trying to hide away his smile as much as his blush. His eyes dart to his phone again and after a moment’s hesitation he says, “you talked to Cait right?”

Derek freezes, his real world thoughts and fears crashing over him once more. Now he really fucking wants to know what Bitty is saying.

Chowder’s concerned frown is hard to look away from but he manages, for the shit all it does. “She insisted that she come clean tonight, she wanted to have a word with you. Did she?”

“She said we need to talk,” Derek says stiffly.

“Yeah…there’s some stuff you need to know.”

“You talk about me often.” Derek says it lightly - it's supposed to be a question - but it's unavoidably neither. The accusation lands heavily between them like a bloated fly dropping into a glass of sweet tea.

Chowder winces, motioning to pocket his phone. It falls from his hand and hits the floor when the onesie proves to have no pockets. Chowder crouches to retrieve his phone, not making eye contact at first, and says: “I’m sorry, Nursey. I haven’t been handling this well. I wasn’t ready to talk to you I think, but I am now.”

Derek rides a roller coaster – one that soars into the sky as quickly as it drops _low_ to the ground, his stomach lurching combatively at the conflicting motions. The apology that Chowder offers – his recognition and acknowledgment that Derek’s turmoil has been _justified_ – feels as though a soothing balm to a strained muscle.

It is a heated salve unfortunately, the temporary relaxant growing quickly uncomfortable. There’s a part of him that’s been waiting all week to discuss this; the part of him that _knows_ emotional avoidance of an issue that is day-in-day out will do nothing but bottle the already existing strife. It just he’s not sure he has the courage to follow through yet.

“Derek,” Ford calls through the house, “you’re up.”

Chowder looks torn: his eyes wandering to the exit, his lip hard-bitten between his teeth. Derek considers asking Ford for a moment, weighs the Walkie in his hand for all it's easy communication.

“Let’s enjoy the game yeah?” Derek says, far more softly that he means to. “We’ll talk later?”

Chowder starts, his upper body jerking like a misfired gun. There’s a protest forming between his parting lips, a frown falling like a closing curtain. The actions become as stunted as his aborted motion before, they complete their movement – his mouth open to speak, his face steeped with concern – but they stop like the unfinished thoughts they are. Chowder gives Derek a tight nod and stays silent.

Derek turns to his heel, towards the door as he lifts the Walkie. It almost puts his back to Chowder, but not quite. It feels statement enough, half-hearted though it is. “Ah, **Whiskey** in the **Living Room** with the **Pen**."

Dex texts him Whiskey’s name and it is accompanied by the man’s stomping feet. Too late Derek remembers that Whiskey and Bitty were racing to the **Reading Room**. And had he been asked moments before he would have said the air couldn’t have gotten anymore tense in this room.

Whiskey takes one sweeping look over the pair of them and sighs angrily. He jerks his hand at the Shark’s hoodie, the slide of his palm cutting like he had gestured it across his throat.

“Chowder is absorbing all the fucking colours,” he complains into his Walkie. “You greedy asshole, stop making this such a shitty rainbow.”

Derek hears Chowder laughing in response and can’t find one of his own. He knows there’s a line somewhere there about Chowder being the sun shining through after a rainstorm but he’s still kinda caught up in their moment before. He wants Chowder to say that Farmer had been flirting _for him_ or some ridiculous bullshit like that except Derek is intimately familiar with wishful thinking. Somewhere between reality and rationality, between belief and desire there’s a dreamland that Derek doesn’t have the optimism to bring to fruition.

Tango clears his throat pointedly, loud enough that they can hear him from the **Kitchen** despite how he also deliberately makes use of the Walkie-talkies they all have on their bodies.

“ **Tango** in the **Living Room** with the **Theatre** production,” he says, his voice echoing as he follows through.

Derek absentmindedly gives a negative. Tango has spent almost every turn of his in the **Kitchen** , that he’s now moved along means a change in MO.

There’s a shifting moment of silence when Tango comes to a stop. With four of them in the room now the space seems smaller. Derek can sense the urge to peek descending upon them all but realistically they’re too far apart to help themselves.

He doesn’t need to see everyone’s cards to figure this mystery out anyhow. He’s _got this_.

Tango now knows that **Yogurt** and **Theatre** aren’t in the envelope. In discovering that Tango had named himself every time he took at turn. He’d started on the opposite side of the house to Derek, in the side yard between the **Porch** and the **Backyard** . Chowder hadn’t given him a heads up on the status of those two cards and yet Tango had bypassed almost every other crime scene to get to the **Living Room**.

Derek tentatively puts a dashed line through **Tango** and the **Living Room** because he gets the impression that Tango is using them as controls. He’d have put a dashed line through the **Backyard** and the front **Porch** if Chowder hadn’t already told him they were out. It lifts his spirits that he would have figured out these clues whether Chowder had cheated or not.

He feels the eyes of the room watching him as he brightens and takes note. The looks on their faces range satisfyingly from curious to irritated.

Whiskey takes long enough deliberating his next move that Ford threatens to come downstairs and make the choice for him. Derek catches Whiskey dart a glance at Tango the moment before he rolls and heads for the **Kitchen**. It excites him to know that the other players are watching one another as closely as he’s watching them.

Bitty rolls for the **Reading Room** and doesn’t make it. Chowder rolls for the **Kitchen** and ends up close behind Whiskey, the pair of them waiting nervously in the hallway like guests deserted by their host.

Derek ignores the way Chowder hesitates in the doorway and the way his chest squeezes at the sight. He’s been waiting for this – _the game_ – all week. The Haus in full swing right now and they have a promise to talk later. Derek can blissfully chill the fuck out and ignore their uncertainty until _after_ he’s won the game.

He stays in the **Living Room** for a moment of respite. He then decides he doesn’t want respite, not when it means being alone with his thoughts.

“ **Whiskey** in the **Living Room** with the **Wrench**.”

Derek barely has a chance to read ‘ **Wrench** ’ on his lock screen before Whiskey comes back into the room seething.

“I’ll make you regret that,” Whiskey hisses at him.

“Soz bro were you going somewhere?” The indifferent way he says it makes Whiskey nods to himself like he’s satisfied and that there’ll be more satisfaction to come. It’s awful cathartic. He’s starting to see why Ford loves fucking with him.

Tango sniggers at their antics before taking point once more. “ **Tango** in the **Living Room** with the **Puck**.”

Derek shakes his head for Tango before reporting it over the Walkie. He’s now _100% fucking sure_ that Tango is using both his own character card and the **Living Room** as controls to figure out the murder weapon. It sounds slow going but Derek has no fucking doubt that Tango is listening hawklike to everyone’s moves. He eyes the Tadpoles as they pull silly faces across the room at one another. There’s also the potential that they’re working together.

It occurs to Derek that he can be using both his and Chowder’s two known cards as controls. He’s got five cards on hand he can use to ferret out specific results. Fuck he’s good.

Whiskey rolls again and from the look of his smug smile it’ll get him to the **Kitchen**. Clearly a stickler for the rules Whiskey waits until he’s in the **Kitchen** before calling his suggestion in. “Let’s go with **Nursey** in the **Kitchen** with **Theatre**. That seems fitting.”

Derek rolls his eyes for Chowder to see when he enters the kitchen. Whiskey ignores him in favour of stretching as far as he can reach for the Lucky Charms box in Chowder’s hands. Every time his fingers brush against the crinkling plastic Chowder tilts it away and shoves a fistful of the sugar into his mouth. It’s made all the more amusing by Whiskey standing like a drunk flamingo, raised leg flailing, to lengthen his reach. He doesn’t stop grabbing at the air even to respond to Tango’s negative.

Derek makes note of the aforementioned cards as ones Tango doesn’t have on hand. Whiskey wrenches the cereal box away from Chowder when he waves it directly in his face. While there’s a chance Whiskey had immediately left for the **Kitchen** to scrounge around for some food there’s another possibility for him to consider. Each time someone has been called into a room they’ve stuck around to make a suggestion. Whiskey hadn’t made a suggestion in the **Living Room** however, he’d gone straight for the **Kitchen**. Derek tentatively puts a dashed line through **Kitchen** , curious to see if that is a control of Whiskey’s.

He looks over his list of rooms and finds them sparing. It's time he went exploring the second floor, the ground floor rooms and the basement having all been struck from his list.

Derek eyes Chowder humming absentmindedly to himself, airy and on the fly, as he reads over his notes.

Derek hesitates before texting him: _i think maybe Whiskey has the kitchen card_

Chowder darts a look at him before rapidly typing a response: _i was thinking the same, notice how he’s been copying Tango’s choices?? i reckon he’s feeling them out, seeing what Tango knows_  then _plus Tango for defs has the Tango card and the Living Room, his strategy is hella obv_

Derek grins almost dazedly at Chowder and says: “I like the way you think.”

He ignores Whiskey (rightfully) accusing them of being in cahoots for the wink and the string of butterflies Chowder sends him. Despite it being an simple idiom the ‘gut feeling’ seems to transcend culture; it is a trusted adviser ready and willing to speak. Can the butterflies in his stomach be considered a subset of that instinct? Dare he trust them?

Whiskey chucks the cereal box at Chowder’s face, foolishly – who plays think fast with a goalie? – and Chowder lazily bats it into the sink. _Gooooooal_ , he mouths like a hyped up soccer player. It’s mad cute. And way distracting.

Tango had suggested **Theatre** while using his controls a turn ago and in the round after Whiskey had  _skipped_ **Theatre** in favour of the **Wrench**. Whiskey had asked after another murder weapon while using a control of his own and fucking with Derek. Sure maybe he’d been testing the **Nursey** card but Whiskey has made it clear that his MO is _imitation_.

Derek draws a neat line through **Theatre** and marks it under Whiskey’s name with a question mark.

If all of his guesses have been correct he’s down to four people, four rooms and two weapons. If his leaps of faith don’t pay off then he has four possible names, six rooms and three weapons to sort through.

Derek trusts his gut, he’ll keep an eye on his theories but he likes where this is going.

Chowder jerks his head to catch his attention. With a sneaky grin he mysteriously pulls a pink Lucky Charm from his jumper pocket and with a beautiful spike he definitely learnt from Farmer he shoots it down the collar of Whiskey’s shirt. “Kobe!”

Derek snorts a laugh. “Yo nice _kill,_ C, you gotta be playing for the wrong team.”

Chowder pauses, eyelids half-mast with amusement and mouth wryly twisted. He glances briefly at Whiskey, considering; he reaches for his phone.

Derek’s phone vibrates and Chowder’s face grows intent.

Chowder: _I’m starting to think there isn’t a wrong team for me_

Derek swallows, reads it a second time, a third, a sixth, before he remembers what this means for _Chowder_.

Derek: _ngl i’m super fucking pleased, tho nowhere near as i am proud rn bro, ykno how this goes: thanks for sharing that with me <333_

Chowder: _fuck off dude <333 _and then: _same_ _ngl i’m hella fucking pleased too_

Derek: _like squad goals ykno? we’re, what did you say? unparalleled? the ideal? no i hadn’t heard, hmmm how /queer/_

Chowder: _lmao selfish of you to be thinking about how this reflects on you, maybe dial that pride down? can’t have it paralleling your ego :///_

Derek shakes his head fondly at Chowder’s grin. For usually such a good read he’s missing the mark. Derek is very deliberately not thinking about what this revelation means for him, for _them_. How Chowder has dropped comments at times that felt like feelers or phrased certain thoughts of his in an intimately familiar way to Derek’s own queer way of thinking. How there’d been an unspoken affinity between them since the beginning that Derek’s never felt instantly with his straight cis friends. How Derek has been avoiding Chowder this last week when they should have been shoulder to shoulder, they’re a _team_.

Derek: _umm you’re gay now pride is the hill we die on_

Chris: _shit u right, consider me recruited and ready for action!!_

Derek: _that’s the spirit_

Bitty, always of spirit, calls out his suggestion: “ **Bitty** in the **Reading Room** with the **Cockroaches**.”

Whiskey makes no outward reaction other than his negative. Derek makes note that the cards aren’t in his hand. It is, once again, not in the slightest a confirmation for **Bitty’s** guilt and yet Derek can’t help but think it is. That’s the first confirmation he’s had that someone _doesn’t_ have the **Bitty** card beyond himself, there is no evidence beyond that. Yet Chowder had dared Dex to accuse **Bitty** , Dex had complied, Whiskey had suggested **Bitty** before he had access to his controls and Tango had—Tango had texted a response. He can’t remember which cards Whiskey had suggested alongside **Bitty**. Plus he’s had no clues from the man himself. It is less evidence of the fact and more that everyone seems comfortable throwing the **Bitty** card around that is piquing his interest.

Chowder hooks his thumb at the door and tilts his head in question. Derek’s done with the **Kitchen** , he can follow depending on Chowder’s choice.

“I’m rolling,” Chowder says into the Walkie and skips out of the room with a bright smile.

Derek does the same. His roll doesn’t get him as far but he’s in the hallway and with Chowder most of the way up the stairs they can pull ugly faces at one another.

He’s no clue where Chowder is headed but he’s nervous to initiate any conversation between them. It’s becoming increasingly clear that Chowder fits comfortably in mystery. Derek could guess at what Chowder might have to tell him but he won’t get his hopes up. He’s chill with their friendship, they’re bros. Things are  _good_ between them, he doesn't want to change that.

Tango stays in the **Living Room** for his turn. Derek knows he has to be halfway through the weapons by now but Tango’s been in the one room almost the entire game. It's a strategy he can’t understand and that’s sure as hell making him wary.

“ **Tango** in the **Living Room** with the 1000 **Cockroaches**.”

Derek texts **Cockroaches** , fingers moving rapidly and misspelling in his excitement. He doesn’t know how well Tango’s plan is working or what he’s doing less obviously alongside it but his strat is getting him hyped.

“I figure you need this, Tango,” Derek say lazily. He can’t see Tango with the wall separating the hallway and living room but as if that would fucking stop him. “You win the battle and I’ll win the war. A little bit of give and take among friends y’know?”

“You want to trash talk in overused cliches? Okay: all’s fair in love and war,” Tango shouts back cheerfully, “so get fucked, Nursey! There’s no lost love here which leaves only the war to take.”

“It's like I got a howler containing my angsty teen poetry. Its _devastating_ honestly. Though less because there’s any talent to your wordplay and more because that shit’s just plain embarrassing.”

“Who you dragging, Nursey?” Chowder yells down the stairs. “I’m hella confused right now. Aren’t writers supposed to be, like, succinct?”

“Oh, oh, I _get it now_ you’re a fake friend, right? That’s what this is because I don’t see why you’d come for me like that otherwise.” Nursey shakes his head at Chowder, “I knew sharks didn’t have feelings.”

“Okay you know what,” Chowder goes, clutching at the bannister with enough fever to throw a quake through its frame. “I was gonna go on about how all your words blur together – there’s just _so_ many of them – but you got me. I hear you lies and I’ve got something to say about it.”

“No lie, C,” Derek says crossing his arms with a shrug, “I’m clearly just lashing out because you love sharks more than me.”

Chowder relaxes, lips pursed. “You’re right, no lies there.”

Derek gleefully stamps his foot forward like he’s gonna charge him and Chowder jerks back with a laugh hard enough that he sits himself down on the stairs. He only laughs harder when Derek points a threatening finger for him to stay seated.

“Are you done?” Whiskey says in echo from the kitchen and the Walkie. “It's my turn.”

“What’s the hold up?” Ford says, hands on hips as she appears at the top of the stairs.

“You now,” Whiskey says.

Ford rolls her eyes for Derek and Chowder to see and vanishes back onto the second floor. Her and Dex have been suspiciously quiet up there. Derek wants to know what they’re up to, probably nerd stuff.

“ **Nursey** , **Kitchen** , **Cockroaches**.”

Derek fumes as he’s dragged back to the kitchen and his progress is dashed. Whiskey sees the look on his face and smirks. He better not be making a control of the **Nursey** card because Derek has _plans_ that don’t involve playing as someone else’s pawn.

Bitty stays put and writes a story that Derek totally see coming to life: “ **Dex** in the **Reading Room** with his **Wrench**.”

“It’s true, I was there,” Chowder whispers into his Walkie and Dex snorts in response.

Whiskey once again shows no reaction to the suggestion or his response. Derek doubts he’d know what he were saying if Whiskey didn’t have to verbalise his ‘no’ for everyone. That frog’s a hard fucking read.

Derek takes stock of what he knows. Whiskey doesn’t have the **Dex** card, Derek had stopped an uncaring Whiskey from going to the **Reading Room** and he knows Dex fittingly has the **Wrench**. He knows that Whiskey doesn’t have **himself** , **Bitty** , **Nursey** or **Dex** at this point. Bitty has **Chowder** and Tango has **himself** so Whiskey has no name cards. That leaves three rooms and two weapons that could be in his hands.

Whiskey could have gone back for the **Reading Room** but instead he’d gone to the **Kitchen** , a card he’s now made his control. That hadn’t been his first pick either, Whiskey had gone to the **Attic** on his first turn. If he’d been using the same strategy back then as he is now then he may have the **Attic** card.

Derek draws a dashed line through the **Attic** , it might still be in play but he doubts it.

And then fuck Whiskey had complained about wanting to beat Bitty to the **Reading Room**! He’d wanted to go directly from the **Attic** to the **Reading Room** and bypass the **Tub** in the process. Derek cuts the **Tub** through with a dashed line.

He’s not sure why but his mind pulls Whiskey and **Theatre** together so he thinks it over. Tango had asked Derek if he had **Theatre** and then Whiskey had asked if Tango had the **Wrench**. He hadn’t imitated Tango’s move that time. What had other cards had he suggested alongside the **Wrench**?

He’d picked **Nursey** he suddenly realises, his name had been the test - Derek had suggested the **Wrench** that same round while fucking with Whiskey aimlessly and had received a confirmation from Dex. Whiskey definitely has the **Kitchen** and **Theatre** and he’s pretty fucking sure he also has the **Tub**.

It suddenly occurs him that Bitty started closest to the **Tub** and his **Closet** , he’d checked out the **Tub** on his first turn. Whiskey had called him to the **Attic** and once he was back on course he’d the **Closet** again on his way to the **Reading Room**.

Derek cups his face in his hands to cover his smile. He knew where the majority of the cards were!

He knew all of Whiskey’s cards ( **Kitchen** , **Theatre** , **Tub** ), he knew two of Bitty’s ( **Chowder** , **Closet** ), two of Chowder’s ( **Porch** , **Yard** ), one of Dex’s ( **Wrench** ) and two of Tango’s ( **Tango** , **Living Room** ) with Tango’s third either being **Bitty** or the **Attic**.

“What is it?” He hears Whiskey whisper, “What do you know?”

Derek puts a line through the **Tub** and **Closet** , he should do a dashed line realistically but he’s so close to solving this mystery. He knows it.

If he’s right about Tango having the **Attic** – and he’s pretty fucking sure he is – then that only leaves the **Reading Room** for the scene of the crime.

Derek is looking at either the **Pen** or the **Puck** as the murder weapon and **Nursey** , **Dex** , **Whiskey** and **Bitty** for the killer. Fuck he doesn’t know how far narrowed down everyone else has this and he still has to get to the **Reading Room** and _stay_ there.

He hesitates on the thought even as it excites him, it’ll be mad obvious if he goes straight to the **Reading Room**. He hears Ford calling his name through the Walkie and realises he missed Chowders turn.

Derek rolls his dice and heads after Chowder. He spots him once he’s halfway up the stairs, standing at the other end of the hall.

Chowder looks him over. “You look like you’re onto something.”

“I goddamn am,” Derek breathes, far more empathic than he means it to be. It's partly the game, he knows, and partly whatever is flowering between them – the petals peeling open bright and in bloom.

Chowder looks at him curiously, something cautious hidden in his eyes, and Derek can’t help himself at the sight. He’s spilling over with intoxicating hope. “I am, I’m onto something—what with this game and you.”

Like a puzzle piece slipping into place, Derek realises that with Dex out of the game no one is asking Chowder about his last mystery card. There are 6 different cards it could be and Derek has no way of narrowing it down.

It strikes him that Derek won’t have any idea what’s up with Chowder until he tells him. Sure he’d _known_ that but he hadn’t been acting like it. He’s spent the last week avoiding Chowder, spent the last week making sure Chowder _couldn’t_ tell him what’s going down.

Ever the trailblazer Chowder breaks free from the ruled standstill and walks towards him.

He grabs up Derek’s hand when he reaches him – a reassuring squeeze passes between them – and after a glance around he leans in close. The air between them is breathless, bated for a whisper. The only motion to disturb their quiet is the erratic thumping of Derek’s wanting heart.

“Sorry, I—I’m,” he takes a breath and squeezes Derek’s hand again. “Consider this nervous excitement. I wasn’t worried before but—I shouldn’t be doing this now and I know we said we’d talk later but I’m not sure we _will_ y’know. Things have been weird between us this week and I know _why_ and I don’t like it.”

Chowder pauses, eyes searching. “Do you want me to continue?”

“Yes,” Derek breathes. _Please_.

Chowder sucks in a surprised breath. “I was wrong. I’m thrilled right now which, honestly, isn’t anything new when I’m around you.” His voice and eyes go all soft as he looks at Derek and he feels his pulse explode into action.

“Cait and I, we’ve—we have an open relationship now. There's this girl she likes and I, well,” Chowder trails off, his mouth smiling gently pleased and its not—its not _new_ . He sees this smile on Chowder after a satisfying shut out or whenever him and Cait return from a fun getaway. He sees it when Derek makes Chowder laugh rich and laborious no matter the mood. He knows this smile, he knows this _man_.

“Derek—” Chowder says.

Only for Ford to fly down the hallway, her feet stomping disruptively, “we’re been calling you!”

Chowder’s face falls and no, “—no,” Derek says. He squeezes Chowder’s hand; their fingers warm and alive with movement, soft light brushes of touch. He wants to smile so wide his cheeks hurt, “We’ll talk later, I _swear_. I want to talk.”

Chowder knocks his shoulder against Derek’s with a shy, pleased grin. “I’ll hold you to that, I know where you live.”

His heart flutters as countless poets have always promised it will.

“Fuck you, Ford,” Derek says quietly, barely able to drag his eyes from Chowder. He can’t believe they’re _holding hands with romantic intention._

Ford snorts though her eyes are tender on their clasped fingers. “Chill, Nursey,” she says, “I just wanted to tell you I appreciate your dedication to _always_ making life a gripping production. I _feel_ you.”

“ _Ford_ —”

“It gets worse,” she says, waving her hands in a shooing motion. “Tango suggested you.”

Derek thumps his way down the stairs irritably and focuses his attention on the harmony of Chowder and Ford laughing. Why in the hell would Tango go and change his MO _now?_ Why now when Derek feels lighter than he has in months, when he thinks he knows where this is going. He hopes to G-d he knows where this is going.

“Dude,” Derek says.

Tango just shrugs, “I already know two out of three of your cards, you aren’t much help to me as the others.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Yeah? I know two of your cards also. And I’ve narrowed the third down to one of two.”

“Ooh,” Tango says, “well la-di-da.”

And Nursey has to laugh at that, even if he wishes he were with Chowder right now.

Whiskey interferes next. Derek barely confirms his negative answer to everyone before Whiskey is spitting out his suggestion. “ **Nursey** , **Kitchen** , **Wrench**.”

Derek realises the three of them are up the same shit creek. They may have their controls and know a fair amount of each others cards but as they follow one after the other by turn they can only _keep_ asking one another. Something’s gotta give and Derek has no idea where Bitty is at.

He’s also lowkey pissed that Whiskey keeps dragging him back to the **Kitchen**. It’d been only once he’d dragged the guy around the Haus. He needs to get the **Reading Room** now, not just to win but also because he damn well wants to be near Chowder. Something’s _happening_ . He couldn’t say when the longing took up home in his chest, nestled deep and flowing like lifeblood. He hadn't noticed until it had begin pumping through his arteries and manifested in the tips of his fingers – aching to touch. It hardly matters now, _they held hands_ – the sweet  yearning spilling over in their hold.

“What’re you smiling about?” Whiskey says suspiciously.

Derek smirks, snapping his cards beneath his thumb. They make a sharp thwacking noise as they fan themselves against one another. “I’m going to win,” he says, voice sure.

Bitty stays where he is once again and it grates on Derek’s nerves. He’s in the **Reading Room** and has been for a while. Derek’s sure Bitty is making similar suggestions each time. He must be narrowing down, zeroing in on a accusation.

“ **Bitty** in the **Reading Room** with **Wrench**.”

Derek’s pretty damn sure Bitty made almost that exact suggestion before except with  **Dex** being suggested. This whole time he’s been thinking Whiskey and Tango were his biggest competition and he’d neglected to keep an eye on his _Captain_.

Whiskey doesn’t have shit for Bitty, Derek knows that already. He puts a line through **Dex**. Bitty only switched the name card in that round, when he could have asked Whiskey about two new cards. It's a bit of a long shot but he’s getting eager. Plus its not like most of his reasoning hasn’t been on gut instinct and leaps of faith so far soo.

So Derek is down to five cards himself. He doesn’t know who has the **Bitty** or **Nursey** card’s. He’s pretty sure the **Reading Room** is where mustard dick died and he doesn’t know if the murder weapon was the **Puck** or the **Pen**. Bitty, Dex, and Chowder each have an answer for him. He just needs to figure out how to ask them.

The kindest boy in the world calls his name over the Walkie-talkie and Derek is sprinting up the stairs before Chowder can name the next card in his suggestion. “ **Nursey** in the **Reading Room** with the **Puck**.”

He skids to a stop outside Bitty’s room and tries to embody the chill he’s always going on about. There’s a moment when he’s climbing out the window where he thinks he might slide right the fuck down the roof and onto the concrete path below but he catches himself. He’s chill, shit’s good.

Bitty puts on a smug expression when Derek finally manages to brace his feet. “It’s just a game, nothing worth dying over.”

“Umm, Bits, someone literally already died don’t be so insensitive. Two someone’s, one of them your _Frog_. And you call yourself Captain,” Derek says with a forlorn sigh.

“Umm, Nursey, all y’all Frogs _voted_ me Captain, I’m pretty sure that makes you an accessory of some sort.”

“We’ll see who’s the real guilty party soon enough,” Derek says, lifting the Walkie to his mouth. “Ford, I’m ready to make an accusation.”

“What!” Tango shouts, “We haven’t even gone ten rounds yet!”

“Objection,” Whiskey says.

Ford squeals, “that’s my boy, go, go.”

Derek pauses, blinking at the two expectant faces before him. What’re his options again?

**Reading Room** , **Bitty** , **Nursey** , **Puck** , **Pen**.

...that first time Chowder had been blushing on the phone with Bitty he’d asked about **Nursey**. The _second_ time Derek had caught him blushing he’d told Derek that Bitty had **Chowder**. Derek mentally removes **Nursey** from the running.

It hits him: that makes **Bitty** the killer.

Bitty who’d spent the majority of the game in the **Reading Room**. Bitty who could have said the correct answer at any time. He’d only said his own name once again in the last turn he’d taken. Bitty’d been so fucking close this whole time and hadn’t had a clue, Derek all but dances on the spot.

All that was left were the two weapons. For a moment he can’t think, his brain too muddled by emotions and exhaustion and Chowder watching him from across the roof.

Fuck it. It was a 50/50 shot and Derek is a hockey player – he has far better odds than that with a real life puck.

Derek smirks at Bitty, “I accuse **Bitty** in with **Reading Room** with the—”

Chowder has this quietly empathetic look on his face. He’d worn that same expression earlier, after he’d said he was ready to talk to Derek. It’d been right after Derek had asked if Dex had **Whiskey** , the **Living Room** or the **Pen** and Dex had picked _Whiskey_.

Derek hadn’t taken fucking note of the **Whiskey** card he’d been so distracted _goddamn._

And Chowder had watched Derek with those same perceptive eyes right after he’d had Dex knock himself out of the game with the  **Pen**. Dex wouldn’t have taken the dare if he’d already known the **Pen** wasn’t in the envelope.

There’s still an unknown card in Chowder’s hand, one he understands far better than Derek ever will. Ford had put the **Puck** into play for Chowder after all.

“—with the **Pen** ,” Derek finishes softly and Chowder beams at him.

“Drum roll please,” Ford says. Dex sounds out the rhythm dutifully as they run through the Haus, their footsteps adding to the beat. They squeeze their heads through Bitty’s window and Ford flourishes the envelop before Derek. “When you’re ready.”

Derek lightly pulls the envelope from her grip and notices Dex smirking up at him. It's a familiar look, one they share when they’ve chirped Chowder into a tizzy. He’s tempted to sit down, he is one clumsy motherfucker and it would be so fucking poetic if he nosedived off the roof right now.

He doesn’t. The envelop comes undone with a soft _snik_ and he pops the mouth open so he can peek inside.

Sitting nestled together are three crude drawings of **Bitty** , the **Reading room** , and a **Pen**.

“I’m just that good,” he says.

 

* * *

 

“Wait wait wait,” Derek says later, “why would Darth Maul want Colonel Mustard dead? They’re both entitled dicks who want to rule their known universes?”

Chowder snorts, “Nursey I both love and respect your beautiful mind, but right now, this just in: Bitty fucking beat a dude to death with a dildo!!”

 

* * *

 

“So Bitty,” Ford says, her hand fisted before his mouth like an imaginary microphone is in her tight grip. “Why’d you do it? What was it about mustard dick that really rustled your jimmies?”

“Ford,” Bitty says with a laugh. “Technically it was _you_ who made a killer out of me.”

“Nope, wrong,” Ford says, “I want a goddamn monologue from you.”

“Well...at first, I didn’t know whether it was his morals or his mustache that I found more offensive.”

 

* * *

 

“Do something with its creepy naked arms,” Derek instructs as he works the poor lighting. Dex shifts the mannequin with a satisfied grin until it's positioned in a salute.

“Yes, yes, that’s gorgeous,” Derek says, “Work that doll over for me, Dexy.”

“Yeah, gross, I’m out.”

“That’s fair,” Derek says. He can’t get the maniquinn’s whole ass body and the tub to fit in the shot and Shitty _needs_ to see this thing in all its disturbing glory.

“Do you want to get in on this?” Dex asks. “I can take the photo.”

“...get _in the tub with it?_ You _do_ hate me.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he says exasperated. “...what if I got in the tub with it.”

“That would be most singular dude and if you _could_ do that, if you could _physically_ stomach that thing’s soulless caress, I’d probably never speak to you again for fear of my own safety.”

“...yeah, that’s fair.”

 

* * *

 

Derek finds himself staring down his reflection later that night. To his right is his own room: Dex quietly getting ready for bed and Derek’s own tempting comforter. To his left is Chowder’s room and beyond that: he doesn’t know what he will find behind door number two.

But he has a pretty good idea so he shoves it open and casually strolls over to perch on the edge of Chowder’s bed.

“Hey!” Chowder says, pleased. “Hi, what’s up?”

He’s soft all over in a worn tee and boxers, sat up against the headboard with a book in hand. It’s like any other night Derek comes calling and really: of course it is. Derek feels a grin flash over his face and away, nerves catching his ease and deteriorating it.

“I have some questions,” he manages.

“‘Kay, shoot.” Chowder puts his book aside and straightens to attention. He tugs on the bottom of his shirt and Derek recognises it for a nervous tick. Rather than hunching awkwardly on Chowder’s bed, he lays himself back on his elbows and stares out across the room. Like, chill.

“Did you figure out what was in the envelope first?”

“Nah,” Chowder says, “not until you were on the roof and announcing it. I’d figured out the weapon is all. That win was yours.”

“Cool,” Derek says, his heart in his throat. “We make a kickass team.”

Chowder sighs happily, “Yeah.”

_Don’t front dipshit,_ Derek thinks wildly, _this is your best friend._

“I don’t want to be presumptuous but…when you said you’re open and not so, y’know, _straight_ that felt like it was for me, or, or, no, that felt like you were telling _me_ for a specific reason.” His mouth is dry in an excruciating contrast to how swampy his hands are. Expressing emotion is fucking nerve-wracking, he’s gonna _die._

“I was!” Chowder says, jolting the bed as he rockets up onto his knees. Then quieter: “I am.”

Derek lets loose a shaky breath and forces himself to look around, lets himself look around at last.

Chowder is smiling anxiously, hands fisted in the covers and Derek finds himself laughing, the feeling cathartic and _freeing._ He pulls himself onto the bed clumsily, desperate to be nearer and Chowder scrambles closer. The bed quakes beneath them. Chowder wraps his arms around Derek and the tight hold is somehow _just_ as freeing. It feels an awful lot like soaring despite hugs being one of the most mooring experiences Derek’s ever come across in life.

He gets one arm around Chowder’s shoulders, another ‘round his waist and pushes his nose right where it belongs in the crook of Chowder’s neck. On their knees their chest press and pull away with each breath like waves to the shore. He can’t believe they’ve made it here.

“Y’know,” Derek says after a while. “If shark wasn’t a shark then I would have spent this entire evening concocting dreams and reality’s where Yolanda and your OC fall in love.”

Chowder pulls away and the light of the room is bright after so long with his eyes closed. Once he stops blinking the shine from his eyes he notices Chowder’s face doing something complicated. For a second, his heart squeezes nervously and then Chowder is half laughing. “I want to say in a consoling way: ‘Yolanda not a scalie?’ but I have no idea what category sharks fall into.”

Derek’s somewhere between affronted and impressed which happily results in surprised laughter.

“We’ll have to watch all these scalie jokes, you know the first step to developing a kink is joking about it...though I suppose it would be something we could explore together.”

“We?” Derek says lightly, struggling to breathe past his excitement “Together?”

“Well sure we’re dating now right? You—you want to date?”

“Uh _yeah_ , I sure hope we do,” Derek blurts, giddy and near incoherent with the possibility. He winds his hands around Chowder’s thick thighs and throws their weight to the side. After some minor shuffling and injury their legs end up intertwined on the covers, faces inches apart as they cuddle.

“Um, unless you want to skip straight to boyfriends.” He runs his fingers lightly along Derek’s cheek. “I do know you awful well,” he says softly.

Derek swallows, lifting his hand to hold Chowder’s against his cheek. Their fingers lacing slightly, thumbs brushing intermittently. Derek presses his nose to the palm of Chowder’s hand, content.

“If you know me so well you’ll know what I want,” he says, staring into Chowder’s brown eyes. Surely this is the go ahead to write sonnets about that lovely shade.

Chowder snorts into his comforter. “Mm, no. I mean that was charming, _quite_ the line, but also as recent events have shown we need to be upfront with one another.”

“Woah,” Derek laughs, “You’ve got my number fucking _memorised._ ” There’s a moment where he hesitates, not sure how to proceed. His fake chill wins out. That wasn’t a shutdown, this is a discussion _._

He _knows this man_.

Derek kisses Chowder’s fingers between his own, nudges the hair from his forehead with his nose to kiss him there. Another is brushed down Chowder’s cheek, their eyes meeting briefly before he knocks their foreheads together gently. “I want you to be my boyfriend,” he breathes, “I want to be your boyfriend.”

Chowder shivers in delight, “explicit communication, hey? Now _that's_ a kink I can get behind!”

Derek bursts out laughing. “Stop! You’re done. You want explicit: I’m telling Caitlyn.”

“Oh, we should!” Chowder cheers. He gropes around Derek’s hips and thighs to feel for his phone and Derek happily presses into his hands.

“Here,” Chowder says, easily unlocking Derek’s phone and smirking at his side eye. “I know we have way more to talk about. _Seriously_ talk about – both with and without Cait – but for now can we just take an Insta worthy photo and send that to her in the morning?”

“Yo,” Derek says softly, eyes heavy-lidded. “I’m gonna need you to dial this shtick down, Prince Charming. I’m like mad lovesick right now.”

Chowder presses his mouth to Derek’s, their lips softly parting. Derek’s eyes flutter shut, a warm glow filling him to the brim and spilling over: immeasurable. Chowder drags his thumb over Derek’s hairline, his eyebrow, his cheekbone. Gentle at every point of contact they curl into one another; their lips tripping lazily together all the while, unhurried and uninhibited.

Chowder pulls back with a pleased hum and grins with all his teeth. “Yo, _same_.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm like /so/ ridiculously pleased with the ending i hope you guys goddamn are too <333


End file.
